She is drinking cocoa in the kitchen when the call comes.
She is drinking cocoa without sugar, and letting the bitter chocolate bewitch her tearstained tastebuds.
She is gripping the mug and feeling it's warmth penetrate her sleepy fingers.
And then the phone rings.
Three endless tones.
He is sitting in the middle of the garden patch.
He is not working.
He holds the tiny shovel in his hands and lets it fall against the dirt, but the blade reflects harmlessly on the angry weeds.
Nothing can grow here.
He is not afraid of the reek of death in his garden.
Instead, he picks up the phone.
He punches in the buttons like bubble wrap.
He hears it ring, once, twice, three times.