He has all the space he needs, uncomplicated, undisturbed. He can look at the stars and just think, not having to worry about a place to sleep or friends in the line of fire. He still worries, sometimes, about his old comrades and their misadventures; but here, in this place of solitude and quiet, he is wholly alone.
It's been three months since he last made a phone call to Los Angeles. It's been three months since he heard the familiar voice of his still best-friend and student. He hasn't said a word in three months, because there is no one to talk to. And he loves it that way.
So it's startling when the single phone he has in his small, well-crafted home rings and he hears it from where he lies silently on the grass out back. His eyes move away from the stars he holds so dear and look toward the building in wonder. His friends know he doesn't want to be disturbed and not to call him— and no one else had his number.
Fearing the worst— that one of his friends had perished, or was mortally injured in some way— he stands up from the dew-laden grass and jogs into the house to find the phone, tossed carelessly away under his simple bed.
When he wraps his hands around it, it takes him a moment of deep breathing to ready himself for whatever heinous news awaits. He presses the green button, and says, "Hello?"
The voice he hears is not one he was expecting. It is soft and kind, melodic and somewhat nervous. "Larry?" she says in little more than a whisper. "Larry, it's been a long time."
"It has," he says after a moment of awe passes. "It has indeed."
His life changes moments later.