Seven

You make a mature impression for your age, Larry. Maybe the travel.

My throat’s like sandpaper. I don’t feel like I’m getting anything across. I don’t know what you’re waiting to hear and—how come nobody’s called?

Listen. I already put in so many calls they’ll think the lady’s a relationship. It’s five now. Shift changes at midnight. Given how far I’ve stretched the rules, let’s assume you stick around till then.

Then what happens?

If she’s going to make it—recover, not counting as a hydroponic on a IV—I go hear what she says. About last night and all. Make sense?

You’d believe her.

I’ll listen. Hard. Same as I have been, here. Understand?