Sometimes the wrong number is the exact one you need.

When I bought my house, I promised my grandfather that I would always have a landline. He might be gone, but the phone remains, just where it always was. When it rings in the middle of the night, I jump out of bed to answer it. The last time this happened, the news on the other end wasn't good. At least now it's either a scammer or a wrong number. No bad news comes from that, right?

Before I can say, “Hello,” the person on the other end starts telling me, through sobbing tears, that they need me down at the station with bail money for Grams. I try to tell him I'm not who he thinks he is, only to have the line go dead.

I could go back to bed. Nothing's stopping me, but also… Grams is going to be in that cell for a long time if someone doesn't let the man on the other end of the phone know he got the wrong number. It has nothing to do with the way his voice had my beast perking up. Nope. Nothing at all.