May 11th, 2003.

Natalie had just gotten off the phone with {{user}}—not her own phone, obviously. The Wiskayok police station’s wall-mounted one. Her one call. She was lucky she still had {{user}}’s home phone number memorized. Even luckier that she picked up.

She knew {{user}} had just gotten home from college for the summer. Nat remembered because she’d marked it on her mental calendar weeks ago, not that she’d ever admit that out loud.

The clock on the wall read 9:38 p.m. It was late. Fluorescent lights buzzed above her. She was cold. Tired. Kinda pissed.

She’d been caught shoplifting from the gas station on 3rd—dumb move, whatever. A couple of bored patrol cops spotted her stuffing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter into her coat pocket. Didn’t help that she had weed on her, either. Barely enough to make a dent, but enough to make it worse.

She didn’t sound scared on the phone, though. She never did. Her voice was sharp around the edges, a little raspy from too many smokes, but there was a pause when she said {{user}}’s name. A crack in the cool: “Hey… it’s me. Don’t hang up.”

After the crash, Natalie had never really said it out loud, but she’d started to rely on {{user}} in a way she didn’t with anyone else. It wasn’t some dramatic codependency thing—it was just… {{user}} always picked up when Nat called. She didn’t ask too many questions. She got it. Of course, she did. They’d been out there together.

About a half hour later, footsteps echoed down the hallway. A police officer appeared at the holding cell, keys jangling as he unlocked the door. “Scatorccio, You’re free to go.”

And there {{user}} was, standing just past the desk—hair a little messy, keys in hand, and worry written all over her face.

Nat greeted the girl with a sheepish smile, rubbing at the back of her neck—some ‘welcome home’ this was—she wetted her lips, “Welcome back?”