copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Night sleet timpanied against the café windows. Jenny sipped her last two dollars in coffee form.
“He’ll come, hon,” the barista said. “He’ll get your message.”
“He wouldn’t want me back. It was a stupid thought.”
“Just wait.”
Jenny stood. “Thanks anyway for using your phone.”
The door banged. A man in soaked clothes hurried in and spotted Jenny.
“Listen, I’m sorry I ran away, Dad. I’m so sorry I took the money—” Her words were cut off by the man’s crushing hug. Cold tears like night sleet ran down his cheek onto hers.
“Thanks for calling,” he said.
The Green-Walled Tower 