The following passage was taken from Chapter Six of my novel, Guinea Pig Maverick.
“53,” she corrects, hazel eyes still glued to those screens. I push the numbers in the correct sequence. The voice tells me I’m free to make a call.
I realize something then. I don’t have either of my parent’s phone numbers memorized. Never had a reason to. My phone kept track of that for me. My shattered, broken, completely destroyed phone.
The only number I have memorized at all is Bob’s Pizza.
Feeling like the biggest idiot, I punch in that number.
“This is Bob’s Pizza!” The enthusiastic employee greets on the first ring.
“Hi. My name is Carter Davis,” I say stupidly. “I need you to contact my parents.”
“Usually customers call if they want an order….”
“No, no, they’re not ordering a pizza.” This earns me an odd glance from the girl. “Look, I don’t have their numbers and it’s really important that they know I’m alive.”
“Maybe you could ask around? I don’t know where I am, but I think the people here want to hurt me.”
Another long pause. “Have you tried calling the police?”
It’s my turn to stay silent. I can’t bring myself to understand just why I chose Bob’s Pizza over the police. Whatever they used to knock me out before the plane ride must have caused some serious brain damage or something.I don’t know what else to do, so I just hang up. I choose my next numbers wisely: 9-1-1. The recorded voice tells me to enter ...