The bus had pulled away by the time I noticed my phone was missing. I checked my pockets again, then looked down the slope, where the blue bus was already turning the corner. Sunlight flashed across its windows before it disappeared. I must have left the phone on the bus.
I had come to visit a friend who had invited me months earlier. I'd never been to his house. He'd sent me the address and directions in a message, but without my phone I could remember only parts of them.
The neighborhood had been built into the hillside. The houses stood close together, with narrow driveways and small shrubs planted along the fronts. Most of them were white. I went over what I could recall of the directions: the third right, a left at the park, then a white house.
An air conditioner hummed behind a fence as I started uphill. At the first corner I hesitated, trying to remember whether the bus stop counted as the starting point. I took the turn anyway.
A man was watering his garden. I gave him my friend's name and asked if he knew where he lived.
He turned the hose away from the flowers.
"I don't think so. Did he just move here?"
"I'm not sure."
The man glanced toward the next row of houses, then shook his head. I thanked him and walked on.
I passed a woman with a dog, but she hadn't heard the name either. Farther along, a woman riding a bicycle with a child behind her slowed when I asked. She told me most of the families had moved in around the same time, then pushed off again.
At each junction I found another row of similar houses. Several had black cars in front and artificial grass beside the driveways. I checked the names on the mailboxes, though I had no idea what street I was supposed to be on.
By the time the streetlights came on, people were eating dinner. Through a window I saw someone getting up from a table. Somewhere nearby a television was playing, loud enough to hear from the pavement. There were people in nearly every house, but I couldn't think of another question to ask them.
A park came into view. I recognized the yellow fence beside the slide, then the vending machine across the road. Beyond it was the bus stop where I'd arrived.
I had walked in a circle.
There was a public phone near the park. I called the bus company and told the woman who answered that I had left my phone on the bus. She asked for the vehicle number. I could only tell her what time I'd got off.
She put me on hold. I stood with the receiver against my ear while another phone rang somewhere in her office.
"I'm sorry. Nothing's been turned in. If someone finds it, we can contact you. What's the best number?"
I looked at the keypad.
"I don't have one right now."
"Is there another number we could try?"
"No. That's all right."
After I hung up, I took the unused coins from the tray and put them in my pocket.
I followed the road around the outside of the neighborhood. Past the last houses, a guardrail ran alongside a patch of cleared land. Blue tarps were stretched over the exposed slope, and I could see a supermarket sign beyond it.
I hadn't seen my friend since his wedding. I tried to picture his face as it had looked that day. He had a child now, though I couldn't remember the child's name. I wasn't even sure how long it had been since we'd spoken. Most of our contact had been through messages.
The road bent downhill toward the bus stop. Water was running through the drainage ditch beside it. As I passed, I caught a square of light beneath the surface.
My phone lay in the muddy water, partly submerged. The glass was cracked, but the screen was on.
I picked it up. Four notifications were waiting there.
"Where are you?"
"Did you arrive?"
"It's cold. Go inside first."
"Bus stop?"
I tried to open the messages, but the screen wouldn't respond. I wiped the glass on my sleeve and tapped the last one again.