And so, he ignored it, turned over, pulled the sheets over his head, and concentrated on falling back to slumber while the phone shook and danced.
Too much was happening, he thought. Too much was beyond his control. But, his bed was his. His covers were his. His room was his. And his home was his. He would stay there and he would talk to no one. He was safe here. Here was his.
But, here was surrounded by so much that was not his. So, Allister cocooned himself in what was his and resigned to stay there.
And the phone kept ringing.
Perhaps it was the cave-like qualities of his blanket cocoon that made Allister think of cavemen, of how the human race had prospered as a direct result of the contributions of the whole. But, now, the whole world seemed to belong to those that said, "this is mine," first. And Allister was tired of fighting. What could he do? He had to play by those rules if he wanted get any of what was left. Allister was the only one that cared about Allister.
And, though he knew that all had become quiet, he did not know the exact time when the silence had been born. He was only familiar with the adult pause. A glance to the phone proved that the receiver had rested, too.
And the silence was enormous, a body bigger than Allister. Big enough to fit into his bedroom, to be sure, but just barely. The silence pressed against the walls and pulsed.
Who could have called? Was it important? It must have been important. Who calls so early?
Silence can be so loud.
Silence can be so overwhelming.
So, Allister did the only sensible thing to do. He left his cocoon, picked up his phone, and called everyone he knew until he found out who had called.
Someone would answer.
Someone had to.