The phone turned up on the third morning after the storm, wedged in the rocks below the landing where Ines checked her crab pots. Barnacles had crusted over one corner. Weed trailed from the charging port. It had been in the sea a year at least, she reckoned, maybe two.
It was ringing.
She stood with the pot dripping against her leg and listened. There was no signal on Skerry Mor. There never had been; the relief boat brought her post and her gossip once a fortnight, and the radio handled everything else. Still the thing buzzed on its rock like a wasp in a jar.
By the time she'd climbed down, it had stopped. She prised it loose and wiped the screen with her thumb.
Sixty-one missed calls. She scrolled through them, the cold forgotten. Every one came from the same contact, saved under her own name, and as she stood there staring at it, the phone began to ring again.