VERA'S P.O.V I lay rigid in the dark, eyes open, counting the rings the way some people count sheep. Four. Five. Six. Ginger kitten was a tight, furious ball against my hip, claws half-extended, every muscle vibrating, equally sharing the same hatred I felt for that old black phone that belonged to another decade. I didn’t move until the seventh ring. After that, I stormed to get it, ripping the receiver to answer. “Vera, baby, please, I'm begging you, with everything I have.” And like I had expected, his drunken voice came through. “Stop calling, Hunter. Stop.” My whisper barely made it past my teeth. I could block him everywhere, on all my socials, my current phone, but never on this relic of a phone. It was the standard vintage basic corded landline phone and didn't have the built-in digital features to block numbers. Hunter has had this number for years. I'd grown attached to it, not wanting to do away with it for the same reason Mum never threw away a
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