God’s Number

Tyler finds God's number in his grandmother's address book, wedged between "Gloria (dentist)" and "Grocery delivery." The handwriting is careful cursive, each digit looped like a prayer.

He copies it into his phone. Hesitates. Deletes the area code, types it back.

hey is this god?

The three dots appear immediately. Vanish. Appear again.

Who's asking?

Tyler's thumbs hover. Outside, the ice cream truck plays its broken song, notes falling like loose change.

tyler mackenzie. 412 elm street. i have questions

Everyone has questions, Tyler Mackenzie, 412 Elm Street.

ok so like. why did you make mosquitoes

Same reason I made you. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

Tyler snorts, nearly drops his phone. His mom calls from downstairs about dinner, but her voice feels far away, like it's traveling through water.

are you actually god or just some old person with gods phone

What's the difference?

The cursor blinks. Tyler chews his thumbnail, tasting salt and worry.

my grandma died last month

The dots dance for a long time.

I know.

where is she

Right now she's making sure you eat something green with dinner.

Tyler looks toward the kitchen, where steam carries the smell of broccoli and something else—lavender, maybe. His grandmother's soap.

that doesnt answer my question

Best answers never do.

youre not very good at this god thing

Neither are you at the human thing. We're even.

Tyler almost smiles. Sets the phone down, picks it up again.

will i see her again

You're seeing her now.

He looks around his room. Poster of a skateboarder frozen mid-kick. Dirty socks that smell like defeat. The window where dust motes drift like tiny prayers.

Nothing.

i dont see anything

Try harder.

Tyler closes his eyes, opens them. In the corner, where shadow meets wall, something shifts. Not his grandmother exactly, but the way she'd stand there watching him sleep, arms crossed, smiling at some secret joke.

oh

There it is.

His mom calls again, sharper this time. Tyler types fast.

i have to go

I know.

will you text back if i text you again

I always do. Different number, same conversation.

Tyler stares at the screen until it goes dark, reflecting his face back at him—older somehow, like he's borrowed time from tomorrow.

He saves the number under "G." Just in case.

Downstairs, his mother serves broccoli without being asked.