Gastric ulcers grow like fertilized bamboo as the phone rings. My task of verifying that Mom’s will is up to date feels like I’m burying a body before God has taken the spirit. Hopefully she won’t answer and will neglect calling me back. If I’m really lucky Godzilla will attack California, making it impossible for all calls to get through and planes to take off for the next decade.
“Hello?” a weak voice answers.




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