One January Morning, Part 24
She stands on the other side of my desk now, and she is silent. What she wants me to say, I don’t know. Now that she’s here, I can’t see into her head at all.
I pick up the phone, dial Peter in the other room, and ask him to find someone for me. I offer a pseudonym, something Pete will pick up on but the suicidal lady pirate will not. Then, I hang up.
Throughout this, she says nothing. She does not move. Her arms remain crossed, her foot still tapping. She is silent as the cliché. It is not until my guest arrives that she makes any sound at all, and then it is the quietest “What the fuck?“ I have ever heard.
Morgan the First—the first of our story, that is—has arrived, his neck wound freshly sewn up, and his “What the fuck?“ is not quiet at all.
To be continued…