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When I wake up around seven a.m., I feel more refreshed than I’ve felt for several days, if not weeks. It’ll be a good day; I can feel it in my bones. The worst of this nightmare is over, right?
Do you feel that, too?
After I finish a decent protein-packed breakfast, Nurse Carol enters the room with a better attitude. Maybe people are starting to adjust to the new way of the world. Although it’s been less than one hundred hours since the big disappearing act, we all must move on; we’ve no choice.
Oh, Viewer, are you at that point yet, or are you still depressed and wondering what to do next? Either way, it’s time to move on and use the past to make a better tomorrow.
Carol checks my vitals again. “Heard you were out cold last night.”
“Yes, I must’ve needed it. Sure, the meds helped, but I haven’t slept like that in a long time. It was like when I was a kid. The kind of sleep you think has been only a few seconds or minutes, but it’s been hours. Wish I could always sleep like that.”
“Oh yes, wouldn’t that be divine?” she replies.
After she removes my catheter, she asks if I’d like to try getting out of bed and going to the bathroom.
I acquiesce. It’s odd trying to walk with a what-feels-like-ten-pound weight only on one of my feet. And awkward because the thickness of the cast on the bottom of my foot offsets my hip and back.
Carol gets me into the small, attached room, and I do my business and brush my teeth with my toothbrush that Zoey thoughtfully provided. The nurse also cuts the extra pair of sweatpants on the left leg so I can wear them later.
It’s also odd being unable to use my left hand since it’s bracketed in metal, material, and Velcro.
Viewer, I’m unsure what you are, but I’m right-handed, yet I’m surprised how often my left hand is needed in assisting the right one. The pain level of both operated-on appendages is noticeable but acceptable.
After returning to bed, I’m exhausted from the feat, but I’m pleased with my progress. Carol says both Dr. Tsai and Dr. Chandler will be making their rounds within the hour. After my nurse pulls out a hairbrush in the bag Zoey left me, I try to look somewhat presentable.
I’ve got this. I’m done with this place and ready to move on.
According to the clock on my phone, both doctors enter my room at ten straight up. They have a more positive look on their faces: they are not scowling. Do you notice that with everyone I’m encountering?
“Good morning, Sarah. Good to see you up and more active,” announces Dr. Tsai.
While she grabs the stool and clicks into my electronic chart, Dr. Chandler asks about my bleeding and says he heard I was out of bed earlier and had no issues. I tell both I want to go home.
“I’ll release you, but if you see any infection or problem, give my office a call promptly,” answers Dr. Tsai. “We both feel you can go home and recuperate there safely.”
After Dr. Chandler concurs, they sign off my chart, authorizing me to leave the building. I’m more than joyful to get out of their hair. I thank them for taking good care of me. They confirm my wound care regimen, medications, post-surgical precautions, and many appointments I need to make for follow-up visits.
When Carol comes into the room, they give her the go-ahead to release me, on the condition I find someone to take me home.
Well, duh, of course. I’m in no position to drive with only one good hand and one good leg. Seriously? And the meds. No doubt I won’t be driving anywhere for a few weeks, especially since my convertible VW Bug is a stick-shift; there’s no way I can position my fat casted foot in my car now.
Once the three of them leave, I send a voice-text: Zoey. Pick me up? I hope her Audi A5 Coupe has enough legroom to fit my larger-than-I-want-to-be body.
A few seconds later, she replies: Sorry, no can do. All day mtgs. Ask Jeremy.
I cringe a little, but I know he’s my only hope.
Me: K. Thx.
Zoey: Will stop by later when you’re home. Luv.
Me: K.
Next, I contact Jeremy, who rapidly answers that he’ll be here in less than an hour.
He’s a good friend, and he means well. I feel bad, as I don’t want to take advantage of him. If there was only a way to let him know I want to keep our relationship platonic. That’s all.
***
As you can see, I’m seated in a wheelchair with flower arrangements and balloons in my blanket-covered lap (and that blanket has seen its share of hospital dirt and grime). I’m dressed in a solid black T-shirt and sweats that have had one leg cut off.
My aide escorts me out of the hospital and carries a pair of crutches, a tote of my personal belongings, and another bag of prescriptions and medical supplies.
Dear Jeremy has pulled his Suburban to the front of the building’s doors and plays the perfect prince getting me comfortable in the front passenger seat and making sure the dirty throw protects my body.
As we head back to my townhouse, I note the crack in the windshield and ask him when it’ll be fixed. He simply shrugs.
I see there are still a few cars left abandoned on the roads. Most of them have shattered windows or missing tires and hubcaps, and some have doors left open. I’m guessing thieves are making a killing with the discarded bounty left behind due to the disappearances.
Feeling like I’m in a one-sided conversation, I bring up Denny—how much I miss him and that I have no clue what to do about it, where to start, or how to start.
I feel like I’m talking to only you, Viewer, not to Jeremy because he makes no effort to reply. My husband is gone. Should I cry? Be sad? Be mad? What am I supposed to do here? What would you do? Can you help me?
Jeremy doesn’t respond to my rambling. Instead, he turns up the volume on the car’s radio when Taylor Swift’s “Bigger than the Whole Sky” song begins. I know she’s one of his favorite performers.
Without a spoken word, he’s pensive, not his easy-going self.
I wonder what’s up. “You okay, Jeremy? You don’t seem to be thrilled to see me.”
“I’m okay. Got lots on my mind. I like this song, though.” He cranks the radio’s volume up further. His silence continues to fill the vehicle when the chorus sings.
He’s probably thinking of me. Am I the “you” in the song? Or maybe it’s the goodbyes Swift sings about? Does he feel our friendship has ended? I hope not; I do cherish him, but I’m not interested in a romance with him.
Viewer, what do you think? Do you have a friend who wants or expects more in a friendship? What do you do to shut that person down without hurting his or her feelings?
I break his concentration. “Did you go to work this morning?”
Only after the song ends does he barely whisper the words, “No, I had to deal with some stuff . . . parents.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I forgot. You said you lost them.”
“Yep.”
“You never told me how you found out.”
“It was bad, Sarah. It was so bad.”
As he turns onto Rinaldi Street, he looks over at me with bloodshot eyes. It’s the first time I’ve noticed them since my accident. He looks like he is ready to burst into tears.
“Oh, Jeremy, I’m so sorry. Do you want to talk about it? They say that helps.” I want to reach out and touch him, but I can’t with my wrapped-up left arm. “Let me help you.”
Then it dawns on me that I may want to rethink how he’s been acting toward me, shouldn’t I? Maybe he doesn’t have ulterior motives; maybe it’s all about his parents being gone. Maybe I was wrong? Is that arrogant of me?
“I found Dad. Well, I found both of them. It—it was sad.”
My friend, a friend who usually confides in me about everything from his ex-girlfriend’s abortion to his cousin being incarcerated for selling drugs, is struggling. He’s heartbroken, and here I’ve been so insensitive to him, dealing only with my issues that I’ve ignored his pain.
When we are almost at my complex, he is still tight-lipped, refusing to convey his feelings or what he is going through. I know his lack of communication is for me; he cares so much for me that he disregards his self-health. Yes, sad.
“Jeremy, I know you don’t want to talk right now. I get that, but I’m telling you—you’re going to tell me what happened. I’m your friend, so you must. And if you don’t want to tell me, then promise me you’ll tell someone else, okay? You need to and should talk about it; it will help you move on.”
He only says, “Um-hm.”
He pulls up next to our garage door.
“What’s your code?” He asks mechanically as he exits his vehicle. He offers me no time to reply, so I wait until he walks around to my side of the car and opens my door.
“You don’t have to be rude about it. I know hurt can make one snotty—I’ve done that to you plenty of times, so don’t play that game with me.”
“Sorry.” He’s resolute in his avoidance. “Code?”
Sighing, I recite the numbers that coincide with C O L T for Colton.
“Thanks. Wait a sec.”
When the overhead door opens, I notice Denny’s and my car parked side by side. But my car looks like it has tears on its roof.
“What happened to my car?”
“I had parked it overnight in the overflow area when we moved you in Adam’s van and didn’t think to move it back. But when I dropped Zoey and the wheelchair off later, we went to put the car back, and someone had slashed the convertible’s fabric. I’m sorry. That was the only damage we found. We’re guessing the person got spooked and left because nothing was taken or damaged in the interior.”
“Ugh. Another thing to deal with.” I’m getting frustrated with ongoing problems that seem to be escalating. How about you, Viewer?
“Yeah. Do you now see why I haven’t dropped everything to be put on hold for hours with an insurance company to fix a crack in my windshield? There’s so much to do. You’ll see when your head clears from those meds. Denny being gone will make you realize the hoops you have to jump through are all unimportant. What matters right now is the here and now.”
I’m glad he finally is talking again—yes, depressingly, but that’s reasonable. I want to know about what happened to his parents, and he’s going to tell me before the day is out.
After explaining to Jeremy where we keep a spare house key hidden in Denny’s toolbox in the garage, my chivalrous friend helps me into my house. It’s almost comical as we work ourselves between both cars, being sure not to bang the left side of my body against my car’s door handle. When we get to the step that enters the condo, he picks me up and carries me over the threshold, sarcastically commenting on my extra weight due to my foot cast. He delivers me to our long couch in the great room.
The act of being helpful seems to be one of my friend’s endearing characteristics as his overall physique improves.
***
With the day half spent, Jeremy and I work well together with me dictating how to rearrange the great room, so that I won’t have to traverse up the dreadful stairs that caused my pain.
Since Denny and I have one of those fancy split electronic beds that adjust with the click of a button and can be separated by undoing a bottom bar, Jeremy (by himself) drags downstairs my half of the thick, upscale mattress and sets it on the floor. After he empties an old bookcase Denny had in college that was kept in the garage, he lays it face down to use as a platform for my mattress.
When he’s done playing the role of a mover, he demands that I take a nap on my new bed (which I gladly do).
While I snooze, he goes food shopping, including buying a bake-your-own pizza and salad. When he returns, he tells me that shopping was a nightmare with people fighting for food and fewer employees available.
Thinking only about myself, I find it demanding to understand what has been happening outside my world for the last several days.
Throughout the hours, I constantly thank him, yet never push him to discuss his parents. He puts Carl’s get-well flowers on the dining room table and swaps out the dead tulips on the kitchen windowsill with the white ones Zoey gave me.
When Jeremy sets up my laptop nearby, he suggests I order one of those rolling knee scooters from Amazon because the crutches are hard to handle with one of my arms being out of commission. And he opens the delivered shipment of the new Alexa and sets it up.
No, there’s no way I can thank my dear friend enough.
Viewer, could you? Can you think of something special I can do to reciprocate for all he’s done? Let’s think about that one.
With the use of one crutch, I hobble into the kitchen and attempt to get out plates, forks, and napkins for our meal while Jeremy sticks the pizza in the oven. He stops me and forces me to slide onto one of the kitchen’s tall metal barstools. He cracks open a can of La Croix, pouring it over a lot of ice in two glasses he retrieved from the cupboard. He always likes lots of ice, so I’m glad he feels more comfortable being in my home.
After a few bites of pizza smothered in chicken, mushrooms, and cheese, I determinedly insist, “Okay, now’s a good time to talk. Time to tell me about your parents.”
Jeremy slows down his chewing; the Adam’s apple in his throat goes up and down as he swallows. “All right. I left work and raced over to Encino right after that odd noise happened. It was crazy driving the five miles. Mayhem everywhere. People standing in the street, dazed as if not knowing what to do. Men and women sitting on the sidewalk curbs sobbing with their hands holding their heads. Accidents. Cars on fire. Young women screaming.”
He fiddles with his pizza slice, picking off a mushroom and eating it, then continues, “I remember driving by Lemay Street Elementary School on Vanowen Street. Many adults were standing outside, in the parking lot, on the sidewalks, looking dumbfounded. And the wailing. That’s still stuck in my head.”
I’m thankful Jeremy is willing to talk, but I’m unsure if I want to hear these details. I can’t imagine being a mother—or if I had my child who I lost—and he or she disappeared. No way.
“One lady came up to my Suburban, holding some clothes and shoes, screaming at me, ‘Where did he go? Did you see my little boy? Where is Mateo? Can you help me find him?’”
“How sad.” I readjust in my chair, wondering if my discomfort is physical or emotional.
“Yeah.” He eats a forkful of salad and adds, “When I got to my parents’, I couldn’t find them. I looked through all the rooms in the house and saw nothing askew. No clothes were lying around like everyone mentions right off the bat. Nothing. I started to panic, trying to guess if they went somewhere, but both their cars were parked in the drive. Then I heard water running. I rechecked the kitchen and both bathrooms, but I couldn’t find the source. Yet I knew a faucet was on somewhere, so I ventured into the backyard. And—there I found the hose on, its nozzle spurting liquid all over Mom’s prized roses. It flooded the bed to the point that water was running down the patio toward their bedroom slider, along the side yard cement walkway, and into her vegetable garden. I turned the water off. Mom’s pink shirt and black tennis skirt were discarded by the hose; her shoes and undergarments were stacked under them. I picked up her watch, necklace, and wedding ring, leaving the clothes where I found them.”
He puts his hand in his jeans pocket and pulls the jewelry out. “I can’t let go of them, Sarah. This is what I have left of her.”
I wobble off the stool, hop on one foot around the counter, and offer a one-armed hug. We cling to each other to grasp any comfort we can, wanting the personal contact to strengthen and keep us standing. We hold on tightly as if nothing else matters.
When we finally release each other, Jeremy is crying. Not sobbing. Not gasping. Tears are running down both sides of his face. Seeing him so distraught, I start to sob.
After he wipes his face in the crook of his arm, he grabs a nearby napkin and gently dabs my eyes, being extra careful around my swollen one.
“That’s not all. There’s Dad.”
“Yes?” I blink away the moisture that threatens to collect again.
“I looked around the backyard, but he was nowhere to be found, including the garden shed. I couldn’t find any of his clothes left anywhere after rechecking everywhere multiple times. I looked for what seemed like hours on hours, trying to figure out if he was home when it happened or not. His car was there! Both of my parents’ cars were in the driveway. I checked his shop, where I thought he would be because he’s always tinkering out there. Then I walked our entire property and fence line. Perhaps he was making sure things were secure. Nope. Not there. When I texted you saying my parents were missing, I was beyond hopeless. None of it made sense, especially since I couldn’t locate my father.”
He puts his fork down and looks at me. “About a half hour later, when I was standing in their dark living room looking out their front window at the lights in the Valley, I realized that the only place left I hadn’t checked was the garage. So, I walked across the breezeway to it.”
He takes a swig of his drink, and pauses, presumably not wanting to continue. He stares at the granite counter and calmly says, “I found him; I found Dad. He had hung himself from the rafters.”
“No, Jeremy! No! Oh, I’m so, so sorry.” I grab him and hold him tightly, so tightly it hurts my wrist, but I don’t care. We’re both crying again. This poor guy. He must be so broken.
“Yes. The only thing I can piece together is that he must’ve seen Mom disappear and was so distraught over it that he walked into the garage, never thinking about turning off the water, and put the noose around his neck.”
He lets out a breath of air and adds quietly, “I’ve told you how Dad depended on Mom for everything and how he would get depressed from time to time. It must’ve put him over the edge seeing her go away like that. He must not have known what to do. I can only hope he didn’t suffer too long.”
“Oh, Jeremy.”
It now makes sense; this is why he’s been acting so protective and caring of me. He needs me as much as I need him. We’ll get through this. We must. We have each other. He had to go through the agony of doing something with his dad’s body—like waiting until the police came to confirm it was suicide. He must’ve been torn telling me about it over the last few days. How heartbreaking.
Are you crying, Viewer? Tell me you wouldn’t want to be in his father’s shoes. Or in Jeremy’s. Horrible.
Thankfully, there’s a knock on the door that distracts us from the deep stab of emotional pain.
“About time, Jeremy,” Zoey says as she enters with a couple of shopping bags hanging on her arms. “I thought you’d need dinner, so I picked up Thai. Took forever. One of the people in line said restaurants are having trouble staying open, all because of the missings.”
“How sweet of you.” Jeremy kindly helps her with the bags as he quickly glances at me.
I chuckle. These two friends of mine are truly remarkable, aren’t they? And Zoey, dear Zoey, doesn’t get upset after we explain we already ate the pizza and salad, remarking that both food choices make great breakfast and lunch meals. And that doesn’t stop her from grabbing a fork out of the kitchen drawer and sampling all the boxes she purchased, exaggerating the marvelous taste of each one.
“Jeremy, Sarah said you helped arrange things here—my, you did a fantastic job. I love how the bed and platform fit perfectly in the bay window; you can still use the long couch and table. Where did the loveseat go?”
“We stuck it in the dining area. See it in the corner? I turned the table sideways so we could shove the smaller couch out of view.”
“Smart of you. Glad to see a man with muscle also have aesthetic qualities.”
He smirks. “Thanks, Zoey, but I don’t think that’ll attract a woman.”
I enjoy their bantering; my girlfriend usually makes anyone feel at home with her vibrant personality.
“So, here’s a question,” she says. “How will Sar bathe? She’s going to start smelling soon.”
Jeremy replies, “I put a bunch of clean towels in the downstairs bath. Yeah, I know there’s no shower there, so maybe I can carry her up the stairs in a day or two, and you can help her in the shower.”
“Great idea. I was going to suggest those dry hair shampoos. And moist towelettes. We can order them on Amazon if needed.”
I protest, “Seriously, you two are concerned already about my hygiene? I greatly appreciate all you’re doing, but it’s above and beyond. Really.”
“Yes, because we love our dear friend,” says Zoey.
After we clean up the dishes and put away the food with my minuscule contribution (more like instructions on where things go), the three of us sit down in the great room, with me resting on the bed, and my back leaning against the bay window’s shelf so that my leg can be supported with pillows.
Zoey has helped herself to a bottle of Shiraz and offered Jeremy a glass; she pops open another La Croix for me, insisting I get completely off the Vicodin before I can touch the hard stuff. You bet.
She takes command, as usual. “How are we going to work this, you two? I can offer to sleep here at night, but who can keep an eye on Sar during the day? You have to work, right, Jeremy?”
“Yes, but I’m taking a week off to deal with family stuff.” From the way he says it, it’s obvious he doesn’t want Zoey in the loop about his parents. “Since I live close by, I can come by during the day and keep a close eye on her.”
“Wait up, guys,” I demand. “I have a say in this, and I can get around pretty well. Yeah, I’ll need help showering and maybe food shopping at first or getting to those doc appointments that I can’t do online, but I’m not bedridden. I can move around downstairs quite easily.”
“Gotcha. That’s settled. Jer, you’ll do days, and I’ll do nights.” She adds, “And let’s swap phone numbers, Jer, so we can keep her on our schedules. Deal?”
Jeremy agrees, and each one logs into their phones and adds the other to their contact list.
Zoey explains further, “In a few minutes, I’ll get some clothes from my house and return, and we’ll get you to bed. You must be exhausted, Sar.”
My friend stops from getting up off the couch. “But wait! Before I go, I’ve got to tell you about work. Jeremy, this is privy info, but since you’re Sarah’s friend, I’ll share it if you never divulge that I’m the source. I don’t want to lose my job over it.”
She continues, “The other night Sar and I moved our money around to protect ourselves, so—since the banks are shut down—you won’t be able to do that part. I hope you have enough funds tucked away for the next several weeks or months before the CBDC—Central Bank Digital Currency—is fully implemented.”
“Yeah, I have several accounts and cash.” Without making eye contact with either of us, Jeremy stares at the red liquid in his glass, adding, “from my parents who are gone.”
“Sorry to hear that, Jer. Is it okay I call you that?” Zoey asks.
“Sure, but I do have a question. If my parents are no longer around and I’m on their bank accounts, can I access their funds? Is it legal to do that?”
“Are you a named beneficiary, or are you listed on the account?”
“My brother and I are both named on the accounts—I believe it’s a trust fund, so can we tap into it at any time?”
She explains, “Yes, if your name is on it, you can access all of it. However, if it is under a pension or TSA, you’d have to submit a death certificate to touch any of the monies. And if your parents disappeared, well, then it may not be allowed on those types of accounts for months or years."
I wonder if Jeremy will mention his father. I’m sure he could get a certificate on him, but it might take a while.
Zoey adds, “If your parents did online banking, then I’m sure you can go move funds around when things open back up. But that isn’t happening anytime soon.”
“I see. Oh, I have one other question. What about Bitcoin accounts? Are they still viable? Will they be accessible?”
“Yes, for now. They’re like GoFundMe; they’re decentralized so anyone can set them up and run them—and charge any outrageous fee they want. But I think that they’ll be deleted and eventually banned. Centrality will become the norm through the CBDC, so everything can be monitored.”
“I see. Thanks.” Jeremy seems a bit more relaxed. Maybe from the wine or knowing he can access some of parents’ funds.
“Back to my work today,” Zoey says. “I learned quite a bit by being in meetings. In a day or two, our bank (and most likely any US bank) will open on a limited basis—like only at the drive-through or automatic deposit sites. This is so they can accept cash, any form of it like bills or coins. With our bank being the biggest in the country, we are offering 10% instant interest on any cash deposited within the next thirty days. If you drop two grand into our bank, you will have $2200 added to your account. This is a great way to cash in the money while making money. Although, I must mention that it’s treated as interest, so the added amount will be taxable down the road.”
She pours herself more wine and adds, “The idea is to get rid of all cash and go completely digital, so this incentive should work well for both the banks and people. Initially, our government will be subsidizing the payout to the banks to give customers a piece of the pie by turning in their cash. And why get rid of the cash? Mainly it’s about corruption. If no cash and every transaction can be traced, it’ll stop the underhanded black market and drug deals because paper money will be worthless. Sure, it’ll float around in backstreets for months or even years, but the dollar as we know it today will be dead if it’s in physical form.”
She turns to me and says, “I was wrong in my summation the other night when I expected cash to be king, but it’s not going to be. However, if you have silver or gold—like when we talked about your coin collection the other day, their value may soar as it’s considered a commodity and worth something. If anything, when the stock market reopens in a few days (that’s what I heard), I’ll be buying futures in both gold and silver. However, purchases won’t be allowed until banks can process the paperwork, and who knows when that will occur. It’ll all be interesting. I’m still not sure I’m on board with the whole thing. It seems there’s something strange going on behind the scenes, but I haven’t figured it out.”
Jeremy asks, “So what you’re saying is I should turn in all my cash and any of my parents’ that I find?”
“Yes, and do it right away to make sure you get the extra 10%. I think our bank will set the benchmark, and others will follow within days.”
“Thanks, Zo—if I can call you that?” he teases.
“Yes, we’ll all be the one-syllable friends then.”
She gets up and tells us she’ll be back in a few minutes because she must go collect her things from her condo.
When she is gone, Jeremy cleans up our glasses but leaves Zoey’s half-full one on the counter. He asks if I need another Vicodin. I better take one, and if I get a good night’s sleep, I tell him, I’ll start weaning off them tomorrow. The last thing I want is to be addicted.
By the time Zoey returns, Jeremy is already standing by the front door, ready to leave, although it’s only a little after nine o’clock. After we both taunt my neighbor that she’s a night owl while the majority of normal people feel more productive during the morning, we confirm that he’ll be back around nine a.m., hopefully by the time she’s awake.
The poor guy has done so much for me and has gone through so much; I wish I could help him. I wish I could make him happy and carefree again, but I think it’s going to take a while.
Viewer, do you have any friends like that who you want to help, but you don’t know how?
Once Jeremy leaves, take-charge Zoey has put sheets on my bed, brought down the soft comforter from our bed, and added my pillow to the cozy retreat. She goes back upstairs and pilfers our bathroom for soap, deodorant, toothpaste, and Kotex, carrying an armful of accessories downstairs and organizing them nicely next to my prescriptions in the half bath.
During one trip upstairs, she hollers down from the staircase asking which pajamas I feel comfortable in. I request my down-to-my-knee gray bed shirt, so we don’t have to deal with my bulky foot cast.
She helps me undress in the downstairs bathroom and gets me ready for bed, including handing me a warm washcloth that feels wonderful on my face and body.
When she leaves to discard my used clothing into the washing machine in the utility room, she allows me some privacy in the small, enclosed room.
D. Are you there, D?
Yes. We are.
Good. How am I doing? I haven’t talked to you in almost two days. Is it okay now?
Yes, the monitor is off. Don’t start talking out loud as Zoey may think you need her.
I could see that happening. Thanks for the reminder.
You’re doing great. Your ratings are spiking upward, and more clients are engaged in viewing you. Any concerns on your end?
Not really. I wondered if I’m boring, that’s all. I’m used to being more in control of my surroundings and my go-get-it attitude, yet I feel stifled due to my injuries and these meds.
That makes sense. You’re fine. If you need the drugs or are in pain, take them. We’ve got you covered. We’ll make sure nothing bad happens to you. You know that.
Thanks. Oh, any chance I can tell Zoey about this program? I think she would be a great candidate for an implant.
No. Not yet. We’ve vetted her but are unsure of her loyalties. Although she works at the bank, we don’t think she’s that receptive to the digital currency issue—at least not yet. And she quoted the Bible, which seemed uncharacteristic of her.
I agree with that one—Zoey was brought up Muslim, so I’ve no clue why she said it either.
We’ll keep monitoring your interactions with her and see if there are any other red flags.
What about Jeremy? Would he be a good choice? I hate to see him suffering so much. It might help him out of his funk.
Again, it’s a no for now. He’s fragile and highly emotional. Perhaps when he has a better grasp on his parents’—especially his father’s—deaths, we might reconsider.
Okay. Keep me posted. It’s good to talk to you. I’m becoming more receptive to this idea of you and the viewers in my head. To me, it’s a form of control.
Yes, we’re in agreement whole-heartedly. You’re the perfect choice for this project, and we appreciate everything you’re doing. Now, get some sleep. Tomorrow is a new day with new opportunities. And Sarah?
Yes?
Did you notice your bathroom fan is fixed? We did that.
No! You did? The screeching sound everyone hates is gone! Amazing. Oh, I love you more and more. One less thing to deal with now that Denny’s gone. Thank you. Thank you.
You’re welcome from Numen. Good night.
When I exit the bathroom, Zoey has a quizzical look on her face. I’m smiling from ear to ear, but I don’t respond as she gets me to bed, deadbolts the front door, and has Alexa turn off the lights and set the alarm.
As she retrieves her glass of wine and climbs up the stairs to our extra bedroom, she asks me for our internet password as she’ll be working and won’t be sleeping for hours.