LENA

The phone rang at half past seven on a Tuesday evening in the specific and unremarkable way that phones rang, with no announcement of what they contained, with the particular and indifferent quality of a device that did not know the difference between the call that changed nothing and the call that changed everything, that presented all of them with the same sound and left the rest to you.

I was in my room.

I was sitting at the small desk by the window with the Carter Industries quarterly reports that Marcus had sent over, the specific and dense documents of a company I had a stake in and...