Now, looking at the neat rows of numbers, I felt a calm, steady curiosity.
My desk phone rang, the sharp chime echoing in the small fabric-walled space of my cubicle.
The display showed a local area code, but no name.
I let it ring.
The phone on my desk vibrated at the same time, its screen lighting up with another call from Ryan.
I did not move my hand.
I simply sat there, staring at the blue payment authorization screen on my laptop, while the phone slowly slid a fraction of an inch across the smooth wood.
I let the phone buzz itself silent against the laminate desk, then slipped it into my pocket and walked down the hall to the breakroom. The scent of burnt microwave popcorn hung in the air. I poured cold water into a paper cup and called George.
“Ryan has called four times since nine,” I said, keeping my voice low. “And there are three other numbers I do not recognize.”
“Do not answer them,” George said. His voice was steady through the receiver, the familiar hum of his office background behind him. “If you pick up, you are giving him a chance to negotiate.”
“He left a voicemail saying the bank flagged the Oak Street payment as a system error,” I said. “He thinks it is a technical glitch.”
“Let him think that for today,” George said. “We knew this part would be noisy.”
“It is already noisy,” I said, tapping my gold wedding band against my fingernail. “I cannot keep doing this at my desk.”
“Go to lunch,” George said. “Get out of the building. I will see you at six.”
I hung up and threw the paper cup into the bin. On my way back to my cubicle, the receptionist looked up from her screen, her eyes lingering on me for a second too long.
The highway traffic on Interstate seventy-seven was a gray smear outside my window for the rest of the afternoon. I worked through three logistics reports, but the numbers on the screen kept shifting into different figures. One thousand four hundred sixty dollars. That was the monthly mortgage payment.
