I’m transported back in time to my one bedroom row house in Baltimore. I’m sitting on my Ikea sofa, freshly gleaned of any loose change so I could buy gas. I was so lonely, desperate to connect with someone. But it was one of those days when nobody was around to answer their phones. I’d dial my parent’s number holding my breath. As soon as the voicemail clicked on, my throat would tighten like a string, and the pitch of my voice was sharper, holding back cries as I calmly left my message in that strange voice. Another number, and the same thing happened. It was an invisible day. When it felt like nobody even remembered or missed me.