“He is going to Hawaii. He told me to find my life to get home.”
The man's face changed. The usual kindness disappeared, replaced by a sharp and serious expression. He spoke on the radio.
“I have a possible... situation. Door 14. A minor. Without companion.”
It took me twenty minutes. Twenty minutes sitting in a sterile beige room, painted with cheerful and mocking primary colors. Plastic chairs. A teddy bear with one less eye on a shelf. The room smelled of hand sanitizer and rancid coffee.
A woman named Mrs. VGA—I saw the name on his badge—knelt in front of me. I smelled of peppermint gum and the lotion my teacher used.
“Honey, is there anyone else we can call? Any other family members?"
I hesitated. My world had been reduced to my mother, and my mother had just... gone away. Mom always said Dad didn't care. That he was a ghost. A man made of money and empty promises.
“He’s gone, Leah. Now there's just the two of us. He chose his business before you.”
But I kept a secret. Deep in my mind, I had a password. A series of numbers that he had once seen in his old and worn-out schedule, written in tiny, faded lyrics next to a name he should not pronounce: Gordon Calvinson. I had memorized it, repeating it in my head at night like a prayer that I did not understand.
My fingers were shaking so much that I could barely point the phone that was on his desk.
“I... have another number,” I stuttered.
“My... my dad.”
Mrs. VGA had an expression of pity. I probably expected there was no answer. A voice message. Another father who didn't answer. I indicated the number. He scored. He put the speaker, with the pen suspended on a yellow notebook.
