Page 126 of The Lineman

One of the figures snorted. “No, you’re in Atlanta, most definitely not Heaven.”

I narrowed my eyes, which didn’t help or stop the swaying or spinning or—fuck! “That doesn’t sound right. If I was in Atlanta, I’d be eating barbecue and drinking a beer, not . . .” I glanced down at the gown I wore. “Why am I wearing an evening gown? Are we going to a fancy dinner? And, shit, why am I in a dress instead of a tux? Could I at least get sequins?”

“Yes, sweetie, you can have all the sequins you want, just not here.”

I tried to focus on that voice, because something about it made the tension in my chest loosen a little.

Then I looked at the person it came from.

And I burst out laughing.

“Mrs. H! What areyoudoing here? You’re not wearing a dress like me. Are you going to the party, too? We should dance when we get there. I bet you’re a good dancer.”

A stunned silence filled the room.

Then, “Oh my God. Hand me my phone. I’m recording this shit.”

I stared at the figure I wasabsolutely surewas Mrs. H. Sure, she looked a little taller than usual. And broader. And . . . nowhere near eighty years old, but those details didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was here.

“Mrs. H,” I said, grinning dopily. “You got taller. And, uh . . . less wrinkly. Good for you.”

Someone cackled.

“Oh, this is fantastic,” the not-Mrs. H wheezed. “I’m keeping this recording forever.”

I frowned. “Wait. You sound . . . different. Did you get a new voice box? How does someone do that? It’s really impressive. Or, wait, I know . . . a witch curse?” My eyes widened. “Mrs. H, did you piss off a Scottish witch who cursed you with manly beauty and a new deep voice?”

A different voice, deep and exasperated, spoke, “Elliot, that’s not Mrs. H. It’s Matty.”

I blinked.

Then blinked again.

Then let out a long, slow “Ooooooohhh.”

Matty. Right.

Not Mrs. H.

I cleared my throat. “You sure?”

Matty snorted. “Last time I checked, yeah.”

I squinted at him. “Huh. Weird. You give off a real grumpy grandma vibe.”

Omar howled with laughter.

“Okay,” another voice said—more familiar, closer, steadier. “That’s enough. Jesus Christ, Matty, stopencouraginghim.”

I turned toward the new speaker and felt something warm settle in my chest.

I knew this one.

He wasn’t an old woman. Or Scottish. Or a witch.

His face was blurry at first, but the more I looked, the more the edges of his features sharpened—strong jaw, dark eyes, that slightly furrowed brow that he always got when he was annoyed but trying to pretend he wasn’t. And his hair—God, it was so . . . red. In the hospital light, it almost looked like a flaming halo.

Mike.

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