Call One

Er two. (If a voicemail counts.) Cary called for three minutes this morning. He said he had five! Darn sergeant or whatever. He's getting by--sounded tired but optimistic. He said the days go slow, but the week went fast. Huh?

The first 90 seconds were us going back and forth with stupid, family business-like questions like...

Cary: Okay, ask me your questions, and I'll ask you mine.
Aly: Where did this bank credit come from?
Cary: I don't know, maybe here.
Aly: What do I do with this invoice?
Cary: That's my dad's. Did my PT license come?
Aly: No, but the check was cashed. Can you get packages? With anything in them?
Cary: Yeah, well not like weapons and stuff.

The last 90 seconds were us going back and forth with frantic trying to be interesting questions like...

Cary: How's Butters?
Aly: Depressed. How are the people?
Cary: Oh, did you hear that? I just got yelled at for not standing up straight. We have to stand perfect all the time.
Aly: Oh sheesh.
Cary: It's okay though. Upp, gotta go. It might be two weeks until I can call again. (Aly: Okay.) Love you.
Aly: Love you too.

I'm working on a care package full of WMDs. And below is a sampling of photos I'm sending. If anyone wants to contribute, drop stuff off at my place this week!