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his life alone. Through my earphones, I hear Waylon Jennings delivering the final warning to his wayward wife. In seconds I’ll be back on the air. I call Nova on the talkback. “What’s 1121’s phone number?”
    â€œIt’s on your screen,” she says. “I sent it as soon as the police traced the call, but Charlie, the number was a dead end. It belongs to a woman named Mavis Durant here in the city.”
    I look at the blueprint 1121 sent in. “The surname of his family starts with a K . The initials don’t fit,” I say.
    â€œNeither does anything else,” Nova says. Her voice is bleak. She knows we’ve reached the end of the road. “Charlie, Mavis is eighty-three years old. She lives in a retirement home here in the city. The police are on their way to talk to her, but they believe the story she told them when they called her.”
    â€œWhat did she tell them?”
    â€œThat one day last month, she left her purse on a bench in the park by the legislature. The purse was turned in. There was nothing missing but her cellular phone. She didn’t report it because the phone had been a gift from her grandson and she didn’t want him to think she’d been careless.”
    â€œAnd she didn’t cut off the service?”
    â€œNo. She said she never used the phone anyway. The phone company’s records bear out her story. The phone wasn’t used until tonight.”
    â€œLoser1121 was saving it,” I say. “I’m going to call him.”
    â€œI’d better check with my friends in blue about that,” Nova says. Her exchange with them is brief. She’s back on the phone almost immediately. “They say go ahead and place the call. We haven’t got anything else.”
    Since they arrived, the cops in the control room haven’t had much to do but look stern and alert. Finally, there’s at least the possibility of action. As I tap in the number, they spring to life, but apparently 1121 has turned off his cell. I give Nova and the officers the thumbs-down sign. My bag of tricks is empty. I flip on my microphone. I don’t have to cast around for an effective tone. The urgency in my voice is the real thing.
    â€œMy name is Charlie Dowhanuik. And you are listening to ‘The World of Charlie D’ on what, even for us, is a weird and scary night. In the last few minutes, I’ve been talking with a troubled friend. We don’t know his name or where he lives—he could be anywhere. The point is we have to find him, and we have to help him. He calls himself loser1121. If you have any idea who 1121 might be, email us at [email protected] or text us. We want to leave the phone lines open in case he decides to call in.
    â€œ1121, I hope you’re still with us. You have no idea how much I hope that you’re still up in your room and that you stay there. I know right at this moment you feel your whole life sucks. But take my word for it, life has a way of getting better.”
    I check the control room to see how I’m doing. The faces of the cops are stony, but Nova gives me a small and encouraging smile, so I plow on.
    â€œYour experience isn’t unique. I didn’t have a lousy relationship with my father—I didn’t have any relationship with him.
    â€œHe was a big shot in politics, and he was never around. I tried everything to get him to pay attention to me. I wasn’t an easy kid. I was born with a birthmark that covers half my face. In a weird way, being a freak was liberating. I had nothing to lose—so I took a lot of chances. My mother used to say that I didn’t have friends, I had fans. Other kids hung around me just to see how far I was going to push it.
    â€œWhat I’m trying to say is that I grew up fine without a father. You can too. There are people who can help you, 1121. I can help you. Just call. You have our number, 1-800-555-2333 . Please just