"Where is she."
"She's right here. She's asleep in a booth under my coat. She's not hurt. She's fine."
"Where is here? Where's Hawthorne? Is that—that's down past Yerington, that's—oh, God." A long ragged breath. "Is he there? Is my dad there?"
"He's here."
"Is he drunk?"
Coralee looked down the length of the counter at the back booth. Ozias Kroll was sitting where she had left him, his big hands flat on the table on either side of the notebook page, his head bent over it, as if he were reading it over and over.
"No," she said. "He's not drunk."
There was a silence on the line so long that Coralee thought she had lost the connection. Then Jolynn Kroll said, in a voice gone suddenly very quiet and very careful, the voice of a woman holding something heavy at arm's length, "Okay. Okay. Who are you again?"
"Coralee. I'm a waitress."
"Why'd he stop there?"