Tom Randle pulled the covers over, settled down in the bed, reached up and flipped off the light. The slight buzz of the electric alarm clock read in bold neon letters 2:13. His wife was already asleep beside him, snoring lightly. But Tom was exhausted and even the noisemaker down the hall wouldn't keep him awake that night. He usually had such trouble falling asleep with all the ambient noise, but he was not accustomed to staying up this late. An emergency call had taken him into the middle of the city for a quick repair that lasted three hours.
The phone rang on the bedside table. Without turning the light on, Tom reached for the phone, pressed the talk button and whispered, "Hello?" He listened for only a moment and hung up without a word. His wife stirred beside him, rolled over and whispered in a groggy voice, "Who was that?"
"No one." He said. "Another telemarketer."
"In the middle of the night?"
"Who sells chemical solutions over the phone?" Tom wondered. He kissed his wife on the forehead and whispered. "Go back to sleep, honey." But she already had.
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