The taxi driver had second thoughts, even before the explosion. It was late and his shift was fading when the dispatcher called out, Red Mountain to Microrayon. It’d be easy for him to head north after driving to the city and go home.

The village was unaware. The house was glowing from the inside, brooding, bubbling until the door flew open and everything flowed out — open mouths, unbuttoned jackets, kisses goodbye, cigarette smoke that formed a cloud around a girl stepping into the night.

The taxi headlights lit up the muddy road. Four strangers piled into the car, speaking in voices he didn’t understand. That night, one of them left a cell phone in the back seat and he kept it.

Sometimes, it rings. He picks it up and listens for those unfamiliar voices. He hears it ringing, even when it’s not with him. When he picks up, he is a phantom breathing.