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read for ten minutes, and then switched off the light. Since then he had lain on his back in the dark, staring at the ceiling, not moving, not fooling himself into even hoping that sleep was imminent.
    “Kathy,” he said out loud.
    His mind floated about aimlessly, settling like a butterfly for only brief moments before moving on. Darkness surrounded him, but not silence. There was no such thing as silence at football camp. Christian heard kegs being thrown, loud music, laughter, singing, swearing. He could distinctly hear Charles and Eddie, his offensive tackles, in the next room. They were permanently set on loud, like a radio turned up before the knob was ripped out. Christian was not above partying too, having fun by consuming alcohol until he hugged the porcelain god and puked up his offering. But not tonight.
    God, not tonight.
    “Kathy,” he said again.
    Was it possible? After all this time …
    So many things were happening at once. School was over. The Titans’ minicamp began the day after tomorrow. The scrutiny of the press had grown more intense than ever. He liked the attention, liked being on the cover of
Sports Illustrated
, liked the awe in people’s faces when they spoke to him. Nice kid, they always said. Real nice. As though they expected him to be rude just because he could throw a pigskin with precision. As though he should somehow feel as though he belonged to a higher species, far above them, because he happened to be a good athlete.
    Christian was excited. He was scared. He knew he had to think about the future. Myron had told him of the dangers and of how short-lived fame could be. Myron was, after all, a classic example. He had told Christian about the importance of cashing in now, that his career would at best last ten years. So much was at stake. So much. He was famous now, but there was a big difference between college famous and pro famous. Soon he’d have it all. Competition. Fame. Real money—not just the alumni secret handouts.…
    But so what?
    “Kathy …”
    His phone rang.
    Christian shot up, his heart beating like a rabbit’s. Fast reflexes. Sometimes they played against you. It was only the phone. Probably Charles or Eddie telling him, hey, it’s party time! They’d both gotten drafted too. Charles had gone in the second round to Dallas. Eddie in the fifth to the Rams.
    He picked up the phone. “Hello?”
    No response.
    “Hello?” he said again.
    Nothing. But the phone had not been hung up. Someone was there, silently holding the receiver to their ear.
    “Who is this?”
    Nothing.
    Christian hung up. He began to lie back down when the phone rang again. He picked up the receiver.
    “Hello?”
    Silence again. Christian tried to listen more closely. Nothing. Or—or was that breathing? Panic seized him. He couldn’t say why. It was just a prankster calling on his unlisted phone. It might even be Charles or Eddie playing some kind of joke. Nothing to get upset about.
    Except he was upset.
    He cleared his throat. “What do you want?”
    Still nothing.
    “If you call back again, I’ll call the cops.”
    He slammed the phone down. His hand shook. He was just about to try to settle back down when he remembered something.
    Star. Six. Nine.
    The phone company had sent something in the mail today. There had been advertisements on the TV—a pregnant woman trying to get to the ringing phone, trudging across the room toward the phone, but when she arrived the caller had already hung up. Then what? She picked up the phone and the voice-over—Cliff Robertson’s or someone like that—said something like “You just missed the call. Was it important? Was it someone you wanted to talk to? There is only one way to find out. Press the star and then six and nine.” They demonstrated it on the screen now, in case anyone wasn’t sure how to use a phone. Then the voice-over continued. “You’ll be connected to your previous caller, even if the number is busy. We’ll keep dialing for