The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Then: never.

The Razr vibrates.

You fold it into a tight square. Put it in your back pocket.

“I’ll call,” he says.

“Phoenix is a desert,” you say, like it’s an accusation.

You stand there until the streetlights hum on.

He hugs you. It’s clumsy. His chin digs into your shoulder. He smells like gasoline and laundry detergent and something else—something that’s just him . You close your eyes and memorize it. The way his heart beats against your ribs. The way his fingers press into the small of your back.