Edmonton

Molly had needed to pee for so long, she thought she might not remember how to do it when the time came. She had been crouching in a scrubby bush just uphill from the train yard since before sunset, and now, judging by how the stars wheeled through the February sky, it was nearly midnight. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and swore under her breath, wishing she hadn't ordered that coffee with her mac and cheese at the Swan Cafe before coming out to wait for the freight train heading north across the border.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time – especially the free refills. Because she was a second-grade teacher in Seattle's Queen Anne District, her days started before the sun rose. She knew, after a full day teaching, plus thumbing it from Seattle to Bellingham (“The City of Subdued Excitement,” she noted as she rode into town in the back of an old steel pickup), she was as likely to fall asleep in the brush as she was to lumber up the side of a grainer and let the swaying rhythm rock her unconscious.

Over Bellingham's electric hum Molly heard the blaring horn as the train dew near and felt the soft rumble of the ground beneath her feet. It had been months since she'd packed a few necessities in her satchel and left without a word, months since she last hopped a locomotive headed somewhere, anywhere. Dizzy but thrilled by the distant roar of the beast, she skidded down the hill on her heels and hid behind a solitary boxcar to wait for the freighter to pull in.

She couldn't stand by the tracks without remembering the tremendous fight with Jeremy, her fiancée, the night before. They were engaged last October, after the rain and cold had put an early end to the hoboing season. When Jeremy asked Molly to marry him, he asked her to give it up. Asked her to give up her first love, traveling the wide, wild, tramp railways of North America. And she thought, at the time, that she'd done it enough. Thought she could say goodbye.

But then February came with weather so warm that the buds and blossoms swelled early on the apple trees. Nothing could take Molly's eyes away from the calendar and that long President's Day weekend when she could take four days off and drift with the spring breeze.

“Honey, I want to get away for the long weekend, maybe go to Vancouver and visit my aunt Ruth,” she told him over corn risotto and leek tarts at Carmelita, their Valentine's Day splurge.

“Sure, babe. Do you want me to come?” Jeremy smiled and put his hand on hers.

At twenty-seven, he was the youngest sales manager at Amazon, squeaky-clean and relaxed beneath the glib facade. When he wasn't thinking, like now, sometimes his sales-face took over.

Molly wasn't sure whether he saw her stiffen. “N-No. She's been so sick, I think it's better if I go alone.”

It was a lie; Ruth, her favorite aunt and her dad's younger sister, was the healthiest of the clan. She'd moved to Canada, as she put it, to use her life in some way that didn't make America's Republicans any richer.

Last night, Thursday before the four-day weekend, Jeremy watched as she pulled out her stained canvas rucksack. His face fell.

“You never said you were hopping,” he said, deep furrows creasing his broad, curl-ringed forehead.

“Because I knew you wouldn't like it.” Molly dug into the bottom of the closet and pulled out her heavy jump boots, black with soot. She set them by the foot of the bed.

“Damn right I don't.” Jeremy snatched the empty rucksack from its place on the bedspread. He hadn't thought of what to do with it next, so he stood there holding it, eyes frantically scanning the room.

“Give me that.” She yanked the sack from his strong, immense hands and turned back to the closet. She quickly selected a sturdy pair of jeans, two good wool sweaters, and her favorite white towel, still stained after many trips through the wash. As Molly pressed it to her face and inhaled its faint diesel smell, she felt Jeremy's eyes burning through her.

“I can't believe you.” Jeremy's voice was hard, tinged with panic. “You fucking lied to me?”

Molly ached for him. She couldn't help it. But she didn't face him, either.

“No, I did not lie to you. Well, I lied to you about Ruth. But I wasn't lying when I told you I'd give it up. I just --”

“Lied your fucking ass off.”

“-- Changed. My. Mind.” Molly froze halfway in the act of stuffing her fingerless elbow-length gloves into the side of her sack. She looked up. His pale blue eyes were slitted, his hands bunched into fists. Her shoulders dropped.

“Come on. Jeremy, I love you.”

“But.”

“But this is in my blood. God, you know that better than anybody. You know the stories I told you about going out there with my dad when I was a kid. I don't know how to get through a summer without watching the country flash by through the open side of a boxcar. I thought I did, but I don't.”

Jeremy stood in the doorway now, shadowed in the lamplight. He shook his head. “So you'd rather have your crazy, dangerous life.”

“Instead of what?”

“Instead of me. Look, if you want to go, that's fine. But if you do, we're through.” Before Molly could protest, Jeremy grabbed his jacket and keys and stormed out the kitchen, slamming the back door so hard she heard glass tinkling. Her stomach churned as she heard him gun the engine on the Jetta, tires squealing as he backed out into the street and raced into the night.

From the bottom dresser drawer, Molly pulled a brown-paper sack filled with cans of sardines, some packed in tomato, or lemon, or olive oil. They were her favorite train food. The sight of their dusty tin lids sent a small thrill through her. As she tucked them into her rucksack, she wondered how this had become her life: Jeremy, the tiny one-bedroom house, the Jetta, the risotto, the normalcy.

Molly shook her head, dropped the full sack to the floor by her boots, and turned out the light for bed. She knew Jeremy wouldn't come home tonight. Before falling asleep, she told herself she'd hitch to Bellingham so he couldn't go looking for her in the Seattle train yard tomorrow afternoon.

Now, standing in the yard in the shadow of the boxcar, Molly shook the tense memories from her head. She needed to focus now, to make sure the bull – the yard's security honcho – didn't spot her. Sometimes a train would pull in and stand for hours before chugging away again, but as this one came down the tracks she could see that it wasn't cutting its speed much. She would need to run for it.

Molly squinted as the locomotive's halogen headlights cut a path down the line, obscuring her view of the massive metal jaw of the engine. As soon as its high-beams passed she tore out from behind the boxcar, her jump boots skittering in the loose gravel beside the tracks. One, two, three cars lumbered by as she jogged and panted, out of shape after four months away. Now ten cars had passed with no openings, but on the thirteenth car she spied a slit of doorway and raced forward to grab on. In one smooth motion she hoisted herself over the lip of the “porch,” swung inside and quickly tucked out of sight. Just like riding a bicycle, she thought, lungs heaving. She squatted, rested her elbows on her knees, and watched the houses and condominiums on the hillside roll by as the train picked up speed.

As the train pushed north, the lights of Ferndale and Custer and Blaine flashed through the slit in the empty grainer. It was so good to be back over the wheels of a train that Molly almost forgot she still needed to pee. She fished a tall can of Sapporo out of her rucksack and pulled back the tab. It was still slightly cold from the liquor store's refrigerator five hours ago. The beer tasted crisp and sweet after the long, thirsty wait, and she drained the can quickly.

With the side of her heavy steel keyfob, Molly widened the opening in the Sapporo can. In the darkness of the train car, she unzipped her jeans and pulled them and her longjohns down to her ankles, then pressed the can's opening to her pussy. She let a trickle of urine out, just enough to make sure she'd aimed right, and then let go. When she was done, the can was full and hot. Molly tugged her jeans up and lobbed the beer can out of the grainer, heard it splash in the waters of Drayton Harbor as the Canadian border loomed.

Sated and drained, Molly turned away from the doorway and let her eyes adjust to the deep darkness inside the car. It was empty except for a couple of lumpy burlap sacks on the floor by the cubby, the urinal-shaped place on the wall that allowed grain to pour out of the car. Cubbies were usually enclosed enough that a tramp could fold into one and become nearly invisible to anyone sweeping the train for stow-aways.

Molly shuffled over to check the cubby, thinking she'd tuck her sleeping bag into it and quickly go to sleep. But the space over the wheels was open, leaving little room for her to lie down. Staying down there would expose her to the asbestos dust shaved from the brakes. She shuddered at the thought and stepped away. Instead, she'd make her bed by the burlap sacks, which might provide some warmth and protection from prying eyes.

She unrolled her sleeping bag and lowered herself onto it. The train jolted sharply to the right, bumping her into the burlap sacks. Molly's elbow struck one, and something inside moaned sleepily. That was when she realized it wasn't burlap, but a filthy brown sleeping bag.

“Oh!” Molly cried out, jumping away as though the contact burned her. Her heart pounded in her throat.

A hand emerged from the top of the sleeping bag, pulled down one edge and clicked the button on a tiny flashlight. The sudden light stung her eyes, but as she blinked she made out a man's sleepy face and a mop of shaggy, faded blue hair topped by a gray knit hat.

“Hallo.” His voice was thick and drowsy, accented. He shined the light toward Molly, careful not to aim for her eyes. When he saw her face, he smiled broadly. “Hallo!” He repeated, more enthusiastically now.

Molly smiled politely, her panic mostly defused. “Hi. Look, I'm sorry. I had no idea anyone was here.”

“No problem.” The man inched out of his sleeping bag, like a snake shedding its skin, revealing his clothes-bundled chest. “I don't mind.”

Molly stood with her back pressed against the wall of the grainer, caught in the flashlight's weak beam. She studied the man at her feet. He was bundled against the cold, and judging by his features, he was in his mid-twenties.

“It's okay,” the man said, patting her empty sleeping bag beside him. “I am Andreas. Come, please, come back.” He smiled sheepishly, like the smile her students gave her just before they burst into helpless giggles.

Hoboing was usually a solitary activity, punctuated by train-yard camaraderie and the occasional campfire jam session. Otherwise, there were too many winos, too many loonies riding the rails, all of them trying to outrun their demons. It never worked. Sooner or later, those demons drove many of them onto the tracks, ending their lives in a quick, sloppy flash.

But before the end, some of them became dangerous, and you could never tell when. Molly had stared down the pointy end of an unhinged hobo's carving knife, had jumped from a moving freighter to escape it.

But she'd also had her share of railway friendships, even romances. Some of them had lasted weeks or months, others only a night or two -- until the end of the line. After a while, you learned to tell the difference between the crazies and the gems, and tell quickly.

Tentatively she sat down beside Andreas and put out her hand. “I'm Molly.”

Andreas took her hand into his warm palm and shook it gently.

“Where are you from?”

“Ah.” Andreas clicked off the flashlight -- batteries were a protected commodity out here.

“Originally, Stuttgart. But I came to America when I was seventeen. I convinced a school that I was an exchange student, forged the documents, and enrolled. I have been in America ever since. The authorities, ah, they do not know.”

Molly could barely see Andreas' face in the yellow sodium lights that occasionally flashed through the grainer door, but his mellow voice and stout accent lulled her.

“Have you been hopping trains long?” She asked.

“Many years. Since graduation. I find it difficult to remain anywhere. Especially when they say I am not supposed to be here.”

Molly nodded, though she doubted Andreas could see. “Yeah, I get that. Hey, I'm sorry I woke you. It's okay if you want to go back to sleep.”

“No, no. I have been sleeping since Eugene. It's nice to have company.” He paused. “Why, do you want to sleep?”

Molly guffawed suddenly, the sound surprising her. “Don't think I could if I tried.”

She dug into her sack, pawing through socks and sardine tins. “Fuck. I forgot my flask. First hop of the year, I always forget my flask.”

Andreas shifted his weight and pulled an aluminum flask from a side pocket of his pants. As he handed it to Molly, she couldn't help noticing that it was warm from his body heat. She unscrewed the top, pressed the opening to her lips, and threw her head back. Gold-flavored, syrupy booze slid over her tongue and burned the back of her throat, sweet as honey.

“Mmm. What is it?” She handed the flask back to Andreas, who took a generous swig.

“Drambuie.” His voice was thick with it.

“Jeez. That's not a hobo drink.” As she reached for the flask, her fingers brushed Andreas'. She shrugged off the twinge between her legs and downed more of the sugary whiskey. Stubbornly, her mind wandered to the thought of that warm place in Andreas' pocket, the creamy hip that surely lay beneath it, the bowl of his pelvis. She swallowed hard.

“Do you live on the rail?” Andreas asked.

“No, in Seattle. I teach second grade.”

“Ah. Then for you this is a sometimes thing. A hobby, a getaway.”

“Yes.”

“I live out here. And so, I want to live well. I make good money playing my guitar in cafes. I have regular gigs almost everywhere I go. But with no home and no car, there is little to spend my money on. So: nice liquor, good socks, new towels, hot showers in fancy hotels sometimes.” He paused to sip the Drambuie.

“Then why don't you replace this filthy sleeping bag?” Molly nudged it with her boot.

Andreas laughed like a river, but grew quickly solemn. “It was my father's. I stole it from him when I left for America. He died soon after -- drowned himself in the River Neckar. My mother blamed me, so I never went back. This is the only thing of his I have.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. Besides, if I had nice gear, someone would steal it.”

They were silent. Molly listened to the clacking of the wheels. It was dark outside the grainer door. She wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked gently back and forth, wondered briefly whether she would go home to Jeremy again. She felt their breakup looming, like a huge black chasm.

“Andreas.”

“Yes?”

“Play your guitar for me?”

“Of course.”

Behind her, she felt him reach away into the darkness and pull out his guitar case, flip open the clasps, and heft the instrument into his lap. Softly he tested the tune of the strings.

“Do you have any requests?”

“No. Wait, yes. Do you know 'The White Ape?' By Leo Kottke? I know it's a long shot.” And, Molly thought to herself, a risky choice. If he played the song now, she would lose her wariness to waves of nostalgia. Her dad used to play it for her, late at night, to get her to fall asleep on the train. She wondered now where he was, whether he was out there riding some other railway. Molly hadn't seen him in years.

“It's one of the first songs I learned.”

Damn.

Molly listened as Andreas' hands brushed the strings. She fell into the first descending notes, which tugged her helplessly into longing. The baroque melody washed through the empty dark car, punctuated by the rhythm of the rails. Mimicking the flute in Kottke's original, she hummed over the chiming chords.

“Again.”

Andreas repeated the song, this time looser, slower. Its somber tones made Molly want someone to wrap her in strong, enveloping arms. This time when “The White Ape” ended, Andreas started another song. Kansas' “Dust in the Wind” filled the space between them. They both sang.

Molly reached over, found Andreas' flask again. She sipped its contents thoughtfully, feeling warm from throat to toes.

Andreas finished the song and dropped his hands.

“You play beautifully.”

“Thank you.” He paused. “Molly?”

“Yes.”

“I want to kiss you.”

Molly didn't wait long to reply. “Okay.”

As she took another sip, Andreas reached behind her head and pulled her mouth to his. He sucked the Drambuie from her lips, slid his hot tongue into her. Gasping, Molly grabbed him tight by the lapels. The guitar was awkward and huge between them.

Tenderly Andreas put the instrument away and turned back to Molly, hugged her hard. He pulled himself out of his sleeping bag while Molly scooted closer and wrapped her legs around his waist. His kisses were fevered and rushed, making her feel impossibly drunk. Molly wound her hands under his cap and into his soft, fine hair and rubbed her smooth cheek against his, reveling in the sting and burn of his whiskers.

Andreas kissed a line down her throat, lips awkward around the thick bandanna she wore around her neck. He fared little better when he reached the tight crewneck of her wool sweater.

“Hold on.” Molly reached between her breasts and unfastened the hook of her racerback bra, letting them fall heavy and loose. She grasped both of Andreas' hands, bones solid beneath the callused fingertips, and cupped her breasts with them. His breath jetted from his lungs.

Andreas wrapped his arms, strong from years of pulling himself onto moving freighters, around Molly. “Lean back.”

He sucked her nipples into his mouth, one and then the other, pulling hard. Even through her thermals and jeans, and however many layers Andreas wore, she could feel his erection pressing against her thigh. His mouth spread hot fire from her breasts down her spine.

Suddenly Andreas bucked against her, gasping. He pulled his mouth away and his arms slackened, forcing Molly to sit up again.

“Oops, sorry.” His voice was touched with shame and pleasure. “I came already.”

Molly chuckled.

“It has been a while,” Andreas said bashfully.

“It's fine,” Molly said, relaxing her legs' grip around his waist. She rested back on her hands, feeling slightly deflated.

Andreas reached forward, hooking a finger into the waistband of her jeans. “Do you want me to -- ”

“Fuck yes.” Molly cleared her throat. “I mean. Yes. Please.”

He unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans. “Here, lean against me.”

Molly turned around and sat between Andreas' legs, her back against his chest. He snaked a hand down, finding his way underneath the elastic band of her long underwear. She was suddenly glad she had shaved quickly this morning; train-hopping was uncomfortable enough without the itch of growing-in pubic hair.

Andreas' fingers inched their way to her slit, strummed her swollen clit. She leaned back and kissed him hard, sinking her teeth into his hot lower lip. His tongue found hers again, sliding like desperate fish as his fingertips feathered her bud.

“Put them in me,” Molly moaned, unable to raise her voice above a hard whisper. The train's horn blared outside; they must be near Vancouver now. She wasn't getting off.

Andreas reached further, sliding one, then two long fingers in and out of Molly's slick cunt. Her pussy sucked at them like a hungry mouth. Good as it felt, her mind began to wander. She tried to remember when she'd last been with Jeremy. Valentine's Day? Before that? Her attention had been so focused on this trip, and on her huge lie, that sex had been the last thing on her mind.

“Molly? Am I doing it right?” Andreas asked.

“Yes, hun.” She shook her head. “Sorry. It's me. The ghosts in my head are hungry tonight.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Molly turned around again and knelt between Andreas' thighs. She pressed his head into her sweater-cloaked breasts and stroked her hand absently across his groin.

“You're hard.”

“Would you like it?” Molly could hear the grin framing his words.

“Got a condom?”

“Of course.” Again he reached toward his pack and she heard the unmistakable crinkle. Andreas unfastened his trousers and slid the latex sheath over his cock. Molly lowered her pants below her hips and faced away from him, laying her chest over the tops of her thighs.

“Here, from behind.” She reached back and guided Andreas toward her slit, gasped as he found it. A jolt from the train lurched him inside her to the hilt. Andreas moaned. He laid his chest over her and clutched her hips, pulling himself in for one, two, three strokes. Another jolt and he was thrown aside. Molly helped him find his way back to her.

As Andreas thrust into her, she squeezed one hand between her thighs and teased her clit. The freighter didn't slow down in Vancouver, Molly noticed. The lights of the vast Canadian city flashed through the grainer door in a honey-colored strobe. Andreas moaned again, voice keeping time with his cock as it barreled into her. Molly watched their coupled shadow on the wall as the passing lights blinked it on and off.

Molly's orgasm drew close now, blotting out the cold steel under her knees, the desperate rattling of the freighter as it picked up speed. She knotted both her hands into the fabric of Andreas' worn sleeping bag, letting his cock alone do the job. Suddenly spasms shot through her body, buckling her elbows and wrists. Molly screamed into the darkness, her wail devoured by a long blast of the locomotive's throaty horn. Andreas came again, just after. He fell against her back, mumbling softly. When the horn died away she realized he was talking to himself in German.

Andreas pulled away, tugging the condom loose and knotting the end. Molly stood and righted her jeans.

“Here.” She took the condom and tossed it through the door. Andreas knelt by her leg. She brushed the top of his head with her hand like he was a little boy. He pulled on her wrist, beckoning her to lie down beside him.

Absently Molly curled one leg around Andreas and sucked on his lower lip. Almost protectively, he pulled her sleeping bag over them for warmth.

“Where are we headed?” Molly asked.

“Edmonton.” Andreas' voice was bright.

“Shit. I didn't pack for Edmonton.”

“Then we'll have to find some other way to keep Molly warm.” Andreas stroked her cheek. Before Molly knew it, exhaustion lapped over her like a wave and dragged her down.

She woke to the bright dawn light on her eyelids. When she opened them, she was alone among the sleeping bags. Andreas sat by the door, watching the snowbound forest landscape turn pink and gold. He was softly blowing into a harmonica.

“Morning,” Molly said. She sat up, rubbed her stiff neck, and put her hands under her armpits for warmth.

Andreas turned. For the first time, Molly got a good look at his boyish, calm face, his angular pale blue eyes and full lips. His flesh was grimy, stained with soot and dust. She put her hands to her own cheeks, realizing hers must look the same.

“Don't.” He smiled. “You're beautiful.” He crawled across the grainer floor and kissed her quickly.

“All the same.” Molly reached into her rucksack and produced a packet of baby wipes, one of her constant companions on the railway. She pulled one loose and worked it across Andreas' face until most of the black smears were gone. “Now you do mine.”

He held her chin with one hand while he cleaned her face with the other, taking special care near her temples and around her nose. He studied her as an artist would study a painting, dabbing here and there. As her face emerged from the grime his smile grew broader. Finished, he kissed her nose.

“There. Now you are a masterpiece.”

“Are you like this always?”

“Like what?”

“Extravagant. You know. Charming. Sweet.”

“I have to be, to survive out here.” Andreas winked. “In most cases it is an act. But with you, I mean it.”

Molly shook her head, knowing it could be a line like any other. “What's for breakfast?”

Andreas pulled a jar of Skippy peanut butter and a half-empty sack of Saltine crackers from his pack, then proudly held them aloft. Molly chuckled and grabbed a tin of sardines. When she rolled the lid back, the pungent fishy odor washed over her. Its familiarity made her ache.

After a few bites Molly passed the tin to Andreas, who swapped her for the peanut-butter jar. She dipped her finger in and sucked off the candy-sweet goo, rubbing the last smear on her gums like it was a drug. It reminded her of her students: mid-morning snack, Jiffy spread across celery stalks and dotted with raisins to look like ants crawling on a log.

“I don't know what I'm going to do.”

“About what?” Andreas asked as he handed her the sardines.

“I don't want to go back. And I do. I can't leave my kids, my students. But I can't be with Jeremy anymore, or with anyone who would force me off the rails.”

“Jeremy?” Andreas dipped a Saltine into the Skippy and chewed noisily.

“My fiance.”

“Ah.”

“Hell, I didn't even jump off at Vancouver to see my aunt like I planned.”

“You could just ... stay. Like I did.”

Molly imagined what it would be like to stay with Andreas -- even just as far as Edmonton. She pictured them eating and fucking and laughing and singing and taking care of each other for the next few days, months, years. She liked the idea, but she thought his charm might wear off, and then they'd be attached in some awkward way until she invented a reason to leave. By then she might have lost her job, and it had taken so long to find it. Her students would never forgive her. No, she couldn't go to Edmonton with him. She couldn't change tracks that quickly.

Molly shook her head. “No. This was something I did with my dad, a couple times a year. I come out here because it's still special, because it feels so good to long for it and to satisfy that longing. If I lived out here, I would need it less.”

Andreas' face was passive, thoughtful. She realized then that he wasn't asking her to stay for his own sake, but for hers. He wrinkled his brows and nodded.

“Do you ever wish you had a regular job? A home?” Molly asked.

“I have both.” Andreas grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Just different.”

Molly crawled to the door and looked out. A river appeared by the side of the tracks, flat and green in the morning light. It split and came together again, forked off into tiny streams, and suddenly widened into a lake as broad as the Mississippi. She immediately recognized the Thompson River, which flowed into the mid-sized city of Kamloops, about 350 kilometers from Vancouver. Molly thought of her aunt and wondered whether Ruth would know where her dad was. Suddenly she had to find out.

“Play me one more song,” she said. “I have to get off here.”

Andreas brought out his guitar and played the first chords before launching into the lyrics with his reedy tenor. “Let us be lovers, we'll marry our fortunes together. I've got some real estate here in my bag.” He grinned and winked at Molly, sang on. She joined him on the final verse: “I'm empty and aching and I don't know why. Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike -- they've all gone to look for America.”

Houses soon appeared on the far side of the river and Molly felt her stomach tighten. It was easy to stay on the ground, easy to stay on the train, but the transitions were jagged. She rolled up her sleeping back and tied it to her pack, hoisted everything onto her back. She crouched by the door again and watched the wood cross-ties flash past less and less quickly. Carefully she poked her head out the side of the grainer and looked ahead; the yard was just a quarter-mile away. The train was moving slowly enough that she could jump, and it would be safer to go now than to risk facing the bull.

Molly looked over her shoulder at Andreas, who was sitting with his back against the wall, noodling on the guitar. He looked up, his mouth cocked in a half-grin.

“Don't worry about it. No goodbyes,” he said.

With a smile and a quick wave Molly whispered, “No goodbyes.” She turned away, tensed her legs and sprung from the car. It was a clumsy jump. She landed on her ass in the gravel, sliding slowly down the embankment toward the river. She scrabbled at the ground with her hands and managed to stop herself, kept her head low.

Molly raised her eyes and watched the freighter chug into the distance. Only when it passed did she clamber back up the hill, cross the tracks and walk toward the cluster of suburban houses. She turned east, heading toward downtown.

She fished into her jeans pocket for change and pulled out the Canadian coins she'd packed for the trip. At the next payphone she lifted the receiver and dialed the familiar numbers.

“Hello?” Asked the woman on the other end.

“Aunt Ruth? It's Molly. You'll never guess where I am.”

The End.