Before Hank could sympathize with Carl, the phone line went dead. Despite redialing every five minutes for the rest of the day, Hank never picked up. He stopped calling at eleven.
Carl’s mind churned over possible counterattacks to the Dutch billionaire’s next move, but in his heart, Carl knew he was powerless to stop him. With no digital access because of the malware, Carl felt utterly cut off from everyone, like he had in grade school when no one wanted to be his friend or invite him to play after school.
After a restless night, he neglected to take his medications, which modulated his mood swings. He became exasperated from his repeated attempts to contact Hank. In a blind frenzy, he smashed his radio with his old T-ball bat. When his parents left to shop at COSTCO, he made several trips to move his vast newspaper collection outside. He set it on fire in the backyard, which caused the NYFD to come to put it out before it spread to adjacent houses. With the radio destroyed and the newspapers burned to cinders, Carl prayed his torture would end.
As ordered by the firefighters, he stood on the back porch and watched the smoke billow upward in his parents’ backyard. He yearned for long ago when life was simple before he heard the voices and before the Dutch billionaire singled him out. Though Carl was secretly flattered he’d been chosen out of thousands of geniuses to work with the CIA, the billionaire’s manipulation of Carl’s day-to-day life was intolerable.
Since it was a nice day, Carl remained outside the rest of the afternoon. The fiery sunset, a sight he hadn’t seen in many months, left him with an afterimage he found comforting. He felt renewed. In a burst of optimism, he pulled out his phone and tried calling Hank again.
Hank answered on the first ring. “Hi, Carl. What’s up?”
Suzanne C Martinez 