The payphone next to the bus stop was the picture of desperation. It was a place for tightly crossed fingers and held breath.
It was a place where you emptied out two dollars worth of quarters to get even a dial tone and waited for the fuzzy connection to clear.
It was a place where you hoped to god the other line would pick up while simultaneously regretting making the phone call in the first place.
It has peeled off paint and rusted edges and flyers of the city's shadiest and most exclusive businesses plastered all over it.
On its best day, it takes maybe six tries to get a solid connection.
On its best day, you can hear the other line for maybe twenty consecutive seconds before it cuts off again.
But this was not its best day. This was a Thursday at 11:06pm.
This was a day for tightly crossed fingers
and emptied out wallets
and hoping to god the other line picks up while simultaneously regretting making the phone call in the first place.
And honestly? Elliott hadn't even considered making the phone call in the first place.