Sunday evening I was numb but in denial. Monday, I was itchy. By Tuesday, I’d curled up in the bathroom, my back against the door, my finger hovering over the ‘call’ button on my burner cell. It took me forty-five minutes to work up the courage to press it, because the only thing worse than not knowing is finding out the truth. Well, the truth came in the form of an automated voice on the other end of the line: The number you have reached has been disconnected.
