Chapter 19: The Chime

The director's office smelled of old paper and peppermint tea.

She sat behind her desk in the green cardigan. The program coordinator stood by the window with a laptop.

Neither of them looked angry. They both looked tired.

"I'll be direct, Ms. Dunning," the director said. "The complaint says you record your classmates in secret."

"I don't."

"It says you carry a hidden recorder on your bag strap and keep clips of private conversations."

"It says your behavior in Ohio shows you will use them," she added.

"The recorder on my bag strap is not hidden," I said. "It has a red light on it. It's the size of a candy bar."

The coordinator coughed into her hand. It might have been a laugh.

"Play the voicemail," said the director.

The coordinator set the laptop down and pressed a key.

The voice that came out was low and slow, pitched down by an app until it barely sounded human.

It said my name. It said I was a danger to the cohort. It said that I had a habit of taking things that weren't mine.

I closed my eyes.

I did not listen to the words. I had learned in Ohio that the words were the part meant to be heard.

I listened to what sat under them.

First came the processing, thin and metallic, a cheap app on a cheap phone.

Under that came the phone speaker itself, narrow and tinny, the sound of a mouth held too close.

And under that, very faint, there was a room.

It was a hard room, small and echoing. The sound bounced off tile.

Then, near the end, came a tiny electronic noise.

Two soft beeps.

My eyes snapped open.

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