Roger was too worried about his parents to understand what the kid wanted right away. “Phone?” he repeated. As soon as he said it, his mind replayed the kid’s query and he understood. “Yes. You can use our phone.” It occurred to him that his parents would not want to see him coming home with a stranger at midnight, but his impulse was to help. He had lived next door to Alcatraz for years and had not once seen someone turned away by its residents. They kept to themselves, yes, but they were good to their own. Roger motioned for the boy to follow him and they walked to the entrance of the shop. He groaned as he shoved the key into the lock and twisted his arm around to force it open. Fearing the bell would ring, he opened the door carefully. The boy walked in and headed for the cash register. Like all of the Alcatraz kids, he was familiar enough with the store to know where the phone was behind the counter. It was an old rotary phone with a heavy receiver and a dial that made the chik-chik-chik sound when you dialed a number that Roger found so comforting.
        The boy waited impatiently as the phone rang again and again, shifting his weight from side to side and biting his lip. His eyes were large and clear, drawing the world and the dark shop into his dilated pupils. Roger was unnerved by how exquisite they were. His mind compared his green eyes to shallow ponds, calm and rippling at the same time, a fragile paradox. He couldn’t help but stare at them, and he did not know why. Eventually the person on the other end picked up. There was a long pause. The boy closed his eyes, sighing heavily, and Roger was able to regain control of his consciousness. A gruff voice answered, a harsh mumble that implied the greeting “who is this?”
         “It’s me, Kelly,” the boy said. “I need you to pick me up.”
         There was another mumble of the same length – maybe three syllables long – as if to say, where are you?
         “I’m Downtown. At Carrabba and First.”
         Three more syllables. Can’t you walk?
       “It’s too far to walk.” Kelly paused and slowly closed and opened his eyes. “I’m not feeling well.” What followed was a string of increasingly louder mumbles and swears. Kelly held the phone away from his ear and winced. He looked up at Roger, who smiled politely. Roger had begun to think about whether or not his parents knew he was in the shop and if they would come in to see him.
        “Look, can you please just pick me up? It’s not like I’m in D.C.”
        The person on the other end muttered one syllable: Fine. There was a loud click and Kelly slowly set the phone back in his cradle. Roger was still smiling, eager to help but increasingly afraid of his parents, who seemed to be taking a very long time to let him know they were there.
        “Thank you,” Kelly said, heading towards the door. “Goodnight.” In the doorway of the shop he turned to Roger and smiled, his huge, placid eyes gleaming, his small frame awash in the moonlight streaming through the plate glass. Roger stared and offered a weak wave, taken aback by the image. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Kelly opened and closed the door as cautiously as Roger had earlier. He walked down the driveway and returned to the stairs where he’d planted himself before to wait for his ride.
        “Your mother was very worried about you,” a voice behind him said, the phrase hatched in a thick Indian accent, the end of each word pointing up.