I pressed “Call.”
The phone rang twice.
Then someone answered.
A young woman’s voice, trembling and tearful.
“Dad? Please—where are you?”
The word hit me like a physical blow.
“I’m… I’m not your dad,” I managed to say, my voice breaking. “Who is this?”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end.
“What? This is my dad’s number. I’ve been calling for an hour!”
Her sobs grew louder.
Through her tears, she explained. Her car had broken down on a rural highway about forty minutes outside town. No signal except in one tiny spot by the road. She had been trying desperately to reach her father.
But when she dialed what she thought was his number, it connected to me.
Because the phone company had reassigned Helen’s old number.
And my contact in her phone—the one labeled “Dad”—was still saved from whoever had it before.
Which happened to be me.
She wasn’t reaching out from beyond.
It was a coincidence.
A cruel, ordinary, painfully explainable coincidence.
I stayed on the phone with her until we figured out her location. I called roadside assistance. I helped her contact her actual father once she found signal again.
