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The stop sign came  so quickly, the white line disappearing beneath the front tires with friction and force, pushing me toward the dash.  He’d nudged his cell phone from his front pocket, between  seam and seatbelt and was juggling it like a hot potato in his fat welding fingers now, driving, but not well.

The answer was Giacomo.  Dad would be the twenty-seventh caller.  “Oh my gosh, it’s ringing,”  he whispered.  “It’s never rung before.”  London, London, London, he breathed.  Held the phone to my ear, I nodded.

“Keep listening…” the radio boomed.  The flip phone clicked in Dad’s hand.

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