There were eighty-three steps to the lantern room. Every night for nineteen years, Ellis counted them, and every night the sea tried to drown him out.
Tonight, he counted eighty-four.
He stood at the top with his hand on the rail, listening. Beneath the wind came a small, persistent ringing.
The phone sat on the windowsill: black, rotary, glistening with seawater. Its cord ended in a frayed knot. Ellis had thrown one just like it into the sea the winter his wife died, after the calls from the hospital stopped.
He let it ring seven times.
“Hello?”
For a moment, nothing. Then the familiar sound of someone warming her hands with her breath.
“Ellis,” his wife said. “Don’t count the stairs again.”
Below him, the lighthouse door slammed.
He gripped the receiver.
“Why?”
Her voice dropped so low he almost missed it.
“Because one of them is coming up.”