It was a call in 2003 that cracked my world open. My younger brother Mike said my name twice, but when I spoke, I heard only the hollow echo of my own voice and the clicks and static of empty sound. A bad connection, I assumed. Next to me, a tapping like nails drummed against a desk; my sleeping hound, Dante, kicked the air behind her, her short legs beating the back of the stiff pleather sofa. The third time Mike said my name, I sat forward and snapped, "You called me, fucker. What?"
