I suddenly had this idea in my head, well, this scene…

A lot of stories started with the protagonist receiving a phone call that would turn out to be somewhat significant for the plot-development, for the later course of the story. He couldn't help noticing the irony in that. He'd probably have laughed, even—or at least chuckled to himself if his face hadn't been so battered.

He wasn't the protagonist of this story, then. He wouldn't be the one on the receiving end—well, not telephone-wise anyway…

Here he was, half standing, half sitting in a phone booth, trying to avoid shards of glass from the bashed in windows that were littering the ground beneath him, blinding him whenever he tried to focus his wandering stare on them. With one hand he was still trying to staunch the flow of blood that was running freely from that grisly wound which was now thankfully hidden beneath the soaked-through clammy fabric of his shirt. But with his other, free hand he was already grabbing for the receiver.

He was screwed. He was so screwed.

He fought to stifle a cry, making it a clipped sound escaping his cracked lips when he bent forward a little to punch in the only number he could think of dialing at a moment like this. He was only half aware of the tears running down his burning cheeks, but he wouldn't have cared anyways. He felt too desperate, too scared. Too alone. And there didn't seem to be any other option than this call, even though he really didn't want to make it.

He didn't.

But she was his only chance. She had always been his only chance, the one to save him…

Maybe the plot she was stuck in currently was deserving of some outward influence altering its course? A storytelling device that would completely unhinge her world, or at least her plans for the night? He hoped so, because if not—if she just hung up on him again (and could he blame her?) he'd be even more screwed than he already was.

He'd be dead in no time. A thread to her story that had lain neglected for too long and finally been dropped…

It was odd how he heard the tinny beep beep of the line echoing in his cloudy mind and at the same time couldn't, for the life of him, seem to hear his own ragged breathing. Maybe that was because all his senses seemed to focus in on nothing but the tiny world he was holding in his hand now, a world he might just be about to catapult himself back into. If only he could fight the creeping unconsciousness long enough to actually say something.

Speak to her…

"Mom, I told you I'm already on my way. With coffee. And Chinese Take Out. And a movie—two movies actually, a kind of appeasement policy, admittedly, but still. I'm making an effort here, okay? Please?"

"Rory?" A whisper. A damn whisper was all he managed to utter. Inwardly, he cursed to himself. Inwardly only, nonverbally, because even that simple whisper seemed to have drained half his remaining strength from his tired body.

Rory… It was so good to hear her voice. And what she said… so her, so Rory. It was only now he was finally hearing her speak again that he did realize how achingly he'd actually missed her. He had to try again. And with yet a little more effort he managed to croak out her name in a somewhat more audible fashion.

"Be patient. Mom. Please? I shouldn't be more than five minutes now, and yes, I do know I'm late; but you won't hear me apologize for what seems to be the gazillionth time already, alright? I'm coming. And your calling me every other minute won't speed up the process. At all. Rather, the opposite…"

And suddenly he could hear her think.

Thank goodness.

"—Mom?..." He could practically see the frown crossing the otherwise smooth skin of her forehead, could see her pout in annoyance. "Okay, who is this? Logan, if that's you: not funny. And if it's some weird sicko calling me, let me tell you that I have a very mean boyfriend, meaner mother still, and grandparents that will scare the living daylights out of you if you should even so much as consider harassing me in any form via this phone call! You can keep your heavy breathing to yourself because I'm going to hang up now."

"No!" he suddenly blurted out, the short word straining him enough to make his lungs feel like they were on fire, causing his breath to come out in a chocked and painful cough. He felt his vision swim and blur, then nearly fade, and it was only the hand clinging to the darn receiver which kept him grounded, helped him hang on to consciousness.

Don't make her hang up, he prayed. Don't make her hang up on me before…

And suddenly he heard the dawning of understanding in her voice as she quietly whispered in an only half believing tone of voice, "Jess?"