by Lynda Harrison Hatcher
At 2:37pm on a Friday in February, an unknown number lit my mobile screen. “Are you kidding? I’m not answering that,” I said melodically, as I weeded through a storage bin stuffed with an assortment of photos, many of them stuck together from years of moisture. Most would be hurled into the dumpster I’d reserved for the next three days. Early spring cleaning.
Seconds later, a text from the same area code – “That’s weird,” I said, then scanned the words: “Lynda, it’s Lissie. Sam’s friend. Could you please … Read more...