The middle of the night. Why did horrifyingly bad phone calls always have to come in the middle of the night?

*Must be God's twisted sense of humor* he thought, tossing clothes at random into a duffel bag. The airlines had been more than accomodating, somehow managing to squeeze him onto the 7:30 a.m. flight from O'Hare to Atlanta. The two hour layover had been a nightmare. For a few brief moments he had considered renting a car and simply heading for Daytona, Florida and not waiting for his connecting flight. But sanity had prevailed, and here he was - scrunched into a seat at gate 32c, awaiting final boarding instructions.

~ 3 a.m. ~

"H'lo?" Fumbling in dark, he finally managed to find the receiver after the sixth ring.

Silence.

"Last chance, I don't like middle of the night phone games."

More silence, briefly punctuated by quiet sniffles and a poorly concealed sob.

Removing the phone from his ear, he almost didn't hear the plaintive cry, "It's me -- Morgan."

Instantly awake, he reached for the light switch. "Morgan? What's wrong?"