MINHO

I’ve tried calling the number every few hours—at least, what I think are hours. There’s an old phone booth at the side of a building, and I think it’s working because there’s a tone when I pick up the handset.

But the number doesn’t seem to lead anywhere. It’s always ringing endlessly. I wonder if the reason I’m left hanging is because there’s no one at the other end of the line or because the person is intently ignoring me. Both are depressing to think of.

But calling this number is part of my routine. I don’t feel the need to sleep, so I drive around. I explore new places, try to bet on what a new building I’ve never been to would look like, grab a drink, call the number, then start again. It’s getting tiring.

Every time I’m in the car, I drive a bit more recklessly. It’s not like there’s traffic anyway. And it doesn’t look like this car needs a refill on gas. So I drive on those huge boulevards, trying to test the limit of the car. Weirdly enough, the speed makes me feel like I’m drunk more than the alcohol I drink at the bar.

I think my brain understands that I want to drive faster because, in front of me, there’s now an endless straight road without any obstacles. I push on the throttle, push the clutch pedal and change gears, and push on the throttle even harder. Just as I think I’ve reached the limit, the car starts to shake but it doesn’t slow down.

I can see the same green haze that was around my other self, so