Merlot's phone rang. He snatched it from the table.
"Mom!" His voice nearly broke. "When are you coming back to the States?"
"It's too expensive right now. Tell me—have you listened to that song, Erika?"
Merlot winced. "Why are you asking me that?"
"I can't stop thinking… what if someone named Erika is writing about us—"
"Mom! I don't need someone writing my life for me. I'm a writer."
A pause. Then, softer: "Have you seen your friend Alan?"
"No. He says we were never in the same squad." Merlot swallowed. "Like the war didn't twist everything out of shape."
"Hmm....I remembered Alan coming to our old apartment since he was four years old. I used to babysit him when his mother had to work. Alan wouldn't lie-"
"Mom, you're not listening—Alan's confused. What really happened in Vietnam."
The line went dead.
Merlot stared at his phone. Damn it. The international call must've cut off—she wouldn't just hang up on him.
In the kitchen, Merlot made himself a cup of coffee. Erika pulsed through his mind like a noise he couldn't switch off, though he was certain he hadn't turned on the radio.