Chapter 4
The Last Call
Twenty-six years ago, I spoke to Alvin for the last time. A conversation I replay endlessly. It was a moment that carved a permanent scar, a turning point that irrevocably altered the course of my life. The weight of that final call is immense.
The static crackled on the line, a familiar sound, yet this time it felt like a premonition, a low hum beneath the surface of our usual banter. Twenty-six years. It feels like a lifetime, and yet, the echo of Alvin’s voice, so vibrant, so impossibly alive, is as clear to me now as the streetlights glinting off the wet pavement outside my window. That last call. It’s a phantom limb, an ache that never truly subsides, a phantom limb I’ve learned to live with, but never to forget. It was the moment the world tilted, the moment the ground beneath my feet gave way, and the invincible cloak we’d woven for ourselves ripped apart, leaving us exposed and bleeding.
“Yo, Big Bro,” Alvin’s voice, rough around the edges, laced with that unmistakable youthful swagger, cut through the night. “You hear the news? We shut ‘em down again. Number one. Always.”
I chuckled, a tired sound even then. “Always, huh? You sure about that, shorty?”
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