By Bill Diamond
During a fitful night, I woke to Stygian darkness. Checking my phone, there was another late-night voicemail. The grief returned. A headache began. I braced myself with strong coffee.
“I’ve been calling for days,” the familiar voice was desiccated and desperate. “I need your help. Why won’t you answer?”
My eyes welled.
“I feel like I’m dying. Just send me a little money, then I’ll go into treatment. This time will be different. Please!”
My finger trembled, and I almost gave in. I sobbed for my lost daughter, and deleted her message.