On the fifth floor of a brick apartment building, Wes hunched over a stack of papers. There was a pint of warm beer to his right, half empty and repurposed as an ashtray. The telephone was green, and the table was made of unfinished wood. A small television filled the room with a blue glow, tough the volume was turned down to a soft murmur. His face was twisted with anticipation, and sweating. He knew nothing could change what happened, nothing could bring her back; she was irreplaceable. But the pain in his heart was still very real, and so was his anger and his thirst for vengeance. The phone started ringing. He lit another cigarette before answering. With the phone to his ear, he pulled from the cigarette and exhaled. He did it again.
The words traveled from the speaker into his ear, and the call ended.