The wind bites at his fingers through threadbare gloves. His hand blocks the glare from oncoming traffic. Walter shambles across the street to a phone booth; a pocketful of change clinks against his mostly empty bottle of whiskey.
The door violently slams shut, and rebounds back on its rails… With a sigh, he drops the receiver, turns, and carefully slides the door into place. Outside, slush slaps against the curbside in a soft cadence, occasionally punctuated by an errant horn.

His frostbitten finger numbly lands slightly below before mashing the 0.
An automated voice responds, “If you would like to place a collect call, dial 1.” The voice is pleasant, but professional.
Beep
“Please dial the number, now:” – Be-bi-bu-bi-bu-bi-bo
“Your name please.” – In a gruff rasp, he responds, “Knight to E7.”
A momentary pause, then a dial tone and a cascade of DTMF.
After two rings, the line picks up, “Would you like to accept a call from” – “Knight to E7?”
There is a brief pause before she hangs up.
He smiles.