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The phone stops.

I sit on the edge of the bed and take another drink, staring at the dark screen until it lights up again. This time, I answer.

“Yeah.”

There’s silence on the other end, followed by a long breath that sounds like he’s been holding it for weeks. “You alive?”

I look down at the bottle between my hands. “Apparently.”

“Where are you?”

“No idea.”

“Sam,” he says, a warning in his voice.

“I’m in a motel.”

“That narrows it down.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “What do you want?”

The question comes out harsher than I intend, but he doesn’t react. Knox has known me too long to be scared off by the tone of my voice.

“I want to know whether you’re eating.”

“I eat.”

“When?”

I glance toward the trash can. There’s a wrapper from the sandwich I bought this morning, though I only managed a few bites before throwing it away. “Today.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one I’ve got.”

He goes quiet again. I can picture him standing outside the house or leaning against the garage wall, one hand tucked into his pocket while he tries to figure out what he can say without making me hang up.

“You sleeping?” he finally asks.

“When I can.”

“With a bottle or without it?”

“You called to check whether I’m alive. I answered.”

“Bare minimum,” Knox says.

“It’s enough.”

“No, it isn’t.” His voice stays even, which somehow makes the words land harder.

I close my eyes and press my fingers against my forehead, trying to hold back the pressure building there.

“I’m not coming home.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Knox says.

“You were going to.”