Blood spills down his lip. His tongue darts out and wipes it before he spits the blood out.

Half an hour away, on the outskirts of Ballylaggin, Shane is limping slightly to a pay phone, clumsily digging for change in his pocket.

In the background—his motorcycle has set ablaze, the crash caused the tank to explode, Shane barely making it away before the fire spread.

Slotting the coins in and shakily pressing in the number he’d memorised since he was 13. He leans against the plastic box, at the pay phone, trying to call home, his phone had smashed into pieces during the crash.

“God—fucking damn it.” He says hoarsely as he holds his side, slumping against the wall as he listens to the continuous ringing. He stares at the lit motorcycle, watching it burn. He holds the phone to his ear, praying you’ll answer—he fucked up a few days ago and you haven’t spoken since.

The line rings. “Cmon, cmon.” He mumbles.

No reply.

“Fuck!” He yells, smashing the phone into the side before slotting his last bit of change in the machine. Once again, the line rings.

The ringing stops, crackling to life as you answer.