Richard Stanford

The phone started up again. One…Two…Three rings. Not another conversation. His throat was dry. His ear felt like it was pressed flat against his skull. Four…Five. The still humid air, the sweat dripping down his back, the thought of standing up was painful. Nine-thirty. Through the open windows he heard the idle chattering from Market Square where couples walked in slow-motion under the glittering streetlamps. Six…Seven, screeching now. The teletype machines joined in, clattering bull