The dying journalist restlessly rocked in his chair and picked up his rusty, archaic rotary phone and artlessly crashed it into his lap. He jammed his finger into the hole above the number nine and frenetically flicked it to the right.
The
dying journalist’s timid, thin voice reached into and felt about infinite
darkness, searching for an answer:
“Hello? I am sorry to be impatient—”
The
deadpan voice from the other end of the line sent a shiver through his fearful ear:
“Just
be patient, sir. You’ll get to your
destination soon.”