The screen lit up with an incoming call, displaying a ten-digit number with an area code I recognized instantly.
Two-zero-six.
Seattle, Washington.n against his palm, but his fingers remained tense against the casing.
“I have to take this call,” he said, his smooth tone slipping for a fraction of a second.
“Is that a client from the West Coast?” I asked.
“It is a shipping subcontractor,” he said, turning toward the inner offices before the phone could ring a second time.
At six o’clock, a knock sounded at the door of my small apartment on Elm Street.
Outside my window, the delivery truck for the local oil cooperative was idling, the driver dragging a thick black hose toward the basement fill pipe of the building.
I knew a gallon of heating oil now cost four dollars, and my winter budget was already stretched thin by the sudden change in my position.
