My coworker Katie is 31. She's from a small town in eastern Oregon. She's worked in our Tokyo office for three years. Every Monday at lunch, she plays the whole floor a voicemail from her dad. It started by accident. Now fourteen Japanese office workers wait for it all week. Her dad's name is Lonnie. He's 67. He fixed school buses for 38 years. He does not text. He does not do video. Every Sunday, he leaves a voicemail. And every single one starts the same way. "Hi Katie. This is Dad." Pause. "Your father." In case she has several. Then the news. In three years, Lonnie's news has never once included a feeling. It includes: The weather. In detail. Including yesterday's. The dog, Rufus, and what Rufus did. Her mother's knee. The high school football score. Katie graduated thirteen years ago. She gets the score every week. And always, at the end: "Your fern's fine. I talked to it." When Katie moved to Japan, she left a fern in her old bedroom. Lonnie has never kept a plant alive in his life. Her mother says he waters it every Saturday morning, and he sits with it for a while, and nobody is allowed to ask what they talk about. Then he hangs up the exact same way. Every time. "Okay. Bye. This is Dad." Here's the part Katie told us later. For her first two years in Tokyo, Lonnie called at 3 a.m. Tokyo time. Every Sunday. He had done the time difference backward. She never told him. She set an alarm. Every week, at 2:55 a.m., she woke up so she could pick up and hear him live. It didn't matter. Even when she answered, he talked like it was a voicemail. "Hi Katie. This is Dad. Your father." Weather. Rufus. Knee. Football. Fern. "Okay. Bye. This is Dad." Click. Two years. She never got a word in. She says it was the best part of her week. This spring, he finally figured out the time. "I looked it up," he said. "Your Monday's my Sunday. That don't seem right. But okay." Now his calls land during her Monday meeting. So now we all get to hear them. When he says "Your father," our section chief mouths it along with him. He is 58. He has never been to America. He knows how Rufus is doing. In July, one voicemail was different. Weather. Rufus. Knee. Football. Fern. Then silence. Eleven seconds. We counted afterward. "Katie. I, uh." Four more seconds. "Okay. Bye. This is Dad." Nobody on our floor moved. Katie stared at her phone. Then she laughed so hard she started crying, and then she was just crying. "Thirty-one years," she said. "That's the closest he's ever gotten." In September, for his birthday, the fourteen of us recorded a voicemail for Lonnie. One at a time. In our best English. "Hi Lonnie. This is Tokyo." Pause. "Your daughter's office." Then the weather in Tokyo. Including yesterday's. Our section chief gave an update on his own knee. A young guy from accounting reported the Japanese high school baseball scores. Then Katie's desk mate said: "Katie's fine. We watered her Saturday." And all fourteen of us, together: "Okay. Bye. This is Tokyo." Lonnie did not call for two weeks. Katie's mother explained why. He had been playing it. At the diner every morning. At the old bus barn. At the men's breakfast at church. Twice, because the first time Earl wasn't paying attention. Then the next Sunday: "Hi Katie. This is Dad. Your father." Weather. Rufus. Knee. Football. Fern. "Tell Tokyo the weather's fine here." Pause. "Tell 'em thanks for looking after my girl." "Okay. Bye. This is Dad." He still has never said it. Katie says he's said it every Sunday for three years.