The phone was wedged between two lobster buoys on the rocks below the lamp room, its cracked screen still glowing after the storm. Maren Holt climbed down for it at dawn, because nobody else lived for nine miles, and because the thing had been ringing since midnight.
It stopped as she picked it up. The screen showed a single name: Maren.
Her own name. Her own number, the one the cable company had cut off in March.
She stood there with the sea sucking at the rocks and waited. The phone buzzed again, warm now, as if someone had been holding it.
"Don't answer," said a voice behind her.
She turned. The lighthouse door was open at the base of the tower, and it had been locked when she left at four. Someone had lit the lamp. The beam was still turning, slow and patient, though the sun was already up.
The phone buzzed a third time.
She answered it anyway, and a woman's voice said, "Good. You're finally awake. Now listen carefully, because the light is going to change, and you're going to have to go up and put it out."