“Someday, your curiosity is going to get the best of you, Mark,” I chide, grateful that he couldn’t see the sneer plastered across my face. “One day, before you know it, you’ll get hit by a bus, and bang!—your life will be over.”

“Yeah, t-that’s pretty, uh, scary,” he answers, hesitancy lining his voice like the frills on a pillow.

“Oh, God, Mark!” I yelp suddenly.

“What?” he asks, genuinely startled.

“Did you hear about Susie Komanski? Did you hear what happened?”

Silence. Finally: “You’re gonna have to refresh my memory on how I know Susie Komanski, Chandler.”

“We went to high school with her,” I inform him, “don’t you remember, in sophomore English, she would always sit in the back corner of the room? She never talked to anyone, but ended up being class president our senior year? Do you remember?”

“Oh! Yeah, Susie, I remember her,” Mark answers, and I can visualize him nodding his head in agreement. “What happened to her?”

“She was walking down Beaconsfield, right, and she had her little baby with her—did you know she had a baby?”

“No, I hadn’t heard that…”

“Yeah, she ended up marrying Cayden Schwartz, but they got divorced about two months ago.”

“What a shame.”

“I know, right? Anyway, she was walking with her little baby named Veronica, she was pushing her in a stroller, and all of a sudden, a giant pit bull comes raging out of some guy’s yard and attacks her!”

Mark gasps. I’ve got him on the edge of his seat.

“They took her to the hospital,” I continue, my voice taking on a solemn air, “the dog bit her up pretty bad, though. I heard that the people who go visit her barely even recognize her anymore.”

“That’s…that’s terrible.” Mark might be crying right now, I’m not sure. “Is she any better?”

“Ah, I dunno, buddy. I haven’t heard anything else as of right now. But don’t worry, as soon as I get an update, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks, man.” He cares. He actually cares about little miss Susie Komanski.

“All right, Mark, sorry about this, but I’ve gotta cut our conversation a little short. But hey, I’ll call you back sometime, and maybe we can meet up, get a bite to eat, catch up some more?” I offer.

“Sure,” he answers, “that’d be great. Hey, if you see Susie at all before we talk again, give her my best, okay?”

“I will, man. I will,” I assure him.

“Great. Well, I guess I’ll let you go.”

“Right. I’ll call you in a few days, Mark.”

“Take care, Chandler.”

“Buh-bye.”

I hang up.

It’s been a good day, I think. Mark Henderson is worried about Susie Komanski, even though he’s never met her. I haven’t, either. Does Susie Komanski even exist? I can’t be the one to tell you; maybe I should call her next, and see what she says when I tell her about Mark Henderson getting mauled by a Doberman.

I pull out my phone book again, its pages frayed and uneven, plastered with StickyNotes used as designated place-holders. Closing my eyes, I open the book, place my finger on a pale yellow page, and run it down the page until I feel like stopping.

I open my eyes.

Jacobson, Margaret. 465 West Rockland Street. 555-6712.

I pick up my phone, punch in her number, and wait.

“Marge, baby, how are you? I haven’t seen you in ages…!”