“The furnace is entirely unresponsive. It is making a clicking sound and then dying.”
“Then you need to contact a licensed HVAC company. I am off the clock.”
“I don’t know who to call! I don’t have anyone’s contact information!”
“I forwarded you the digital contact cards for three highly rated, emergency 24-hour companies last winter, specifically for a scenario like this.”
“I don’t have them anymore!”
“They are in your phone, Mom.”
“Where in my phone?” she wailed.
“In our text message history. Just open the search bar and type the letters H-V-A-C.”
A heavy, static-laced silence hung on the line. Then, a muffled, agitated voice entered the audio feed. It was Brooke.
“Give me the phone,” I heard my sister hiss.
Mom, eternally compliant, apparently handed the device over.
“Rupert,” Brooke commanded, her tone devoid of any of the earlier dinner-party sweetness.
“Brooke.”
“You need to get in your truck and come over here right now.”
