I walk back out to the kitchen, taking in the dried-out onions and ripe bananas, then the living room. The answering machine displays the number four, so I push play. The first message is a friend asking about dinner. Delete. The next is a man I don’t know, telling me there had been an accident, asking if someone who knows Chuck could please call. Delete. The man again, telling whoever is listening to go to this hospital, that it’s urgent. Delete. Amber, frantic, asking where am I? what happened? where are we suppose to meet? Oh god. Call me back, please. The machine stops, and with my finger clearing a space of dust over the delete button I wonder if I should have saved the first three messages.