081913 #trout Into the apartment at the end of the hall he goes, shucking coats and layers with a sort of frenzied efficiency. They fall away, fall on the bed. He picks up the phone, picks out the number from that front room of his memory, the little room with the door always open. The number comes pouring out, slides down his arm to the phone before he can think about it, bathes the phone in the delighted flow of its pattern.