It was the winter of 2007, and I was driving the haul road over Juniper Pass, the kind of route truckers only take when the interstate is closed by ice. The snow had been falling for hours, and the road was nothing but a pair of ruts through white. I saw the phone first as a dark shape against the drifts—a rotary dial mounted on a splintered post, glowing faintly under the moon. I stopped because the engine was overheating, and because the receiver was off the hook, swaying in the wind. The voice on the other end was thin, like a woman speaking from a great distance, and she said my name. She told me to keep driving, to not stop again until I reached the valley. But every mile I drove, the phone rang again from inside the cab—the same old rotary sound, coming from nowhere. By the time I made it to the diner in Silver Fork, my hands were shaking so bad I couldn't hold the coffee cup. The waitress said no one had used that phone in years. Then she asked me who I'd been talking to.