Diamond Hands
Mirio Mella
I woke suddenly, my phone vibrating angrily on the bedside table. As I gathered my senses, I was gripped by the ominous feeling that a call in the dead of night inevitably triggers. That dread deepened as, rubbing my eyes, I saw Morticia flashing on my iPhone’s caller ID, the name my Uncle Mike and I used to jokingly refer to his humourless sister. I hadn’t spoken to her in over 18 months, so a 2 AM call from the perennial fun-sponge could only mean bad news.
