the shipping container

Somehow it was worse that the trophy stayed in the garage, still gleaming under the fluorescent lights as if mocking him. It wasn’t his anymore, silently changing ownership after the disqualification handed the win to Lewis. 

They might as well have carved the trophy straight out of George’s chest, still slick with the blood, sweat, and tears he had poured into the race. And it wasn’t even his fault.

Toto’s grim expression, Marcus’s clipped apology, the engineers suddenly fascinated by the floor—none of it helped. His side of the garage had gone quiet too fast, too polite, as though grief required hush.

By the time he made it back to his driver’s room, the adrenaline had gone sour in his veins. He felt hollowed out, nauseous, like someone had stolen all the air.

He didn’t bother waiting for the full debrief. What was the point? There was nothing left to say, nothing left to fix. By the time the press releases hit the wire, his flight was already taxiing down the runway.

The jet was too quiet. Aleix had tried to say something reassuring on the tarmac, but George had waved him off, polite as always. He could still feel the dull ache in his jaw from where he had been clenching it through security.

He didn’t even put on his team kit, changing into his oversized black jumper instead; he just slumped against the window, arms folded tight, watching Belgium fall away in grey ribbons beneath the wing.

The flight home to Nice was short, though it stretched like penance. He scrolled aimlessly through his team statements, social media posts, a photograph of Lewis hoisting his trophy, the caption already trending.

He turned the phone over and set it face down on the tray table. He told himself it was fine. It was merely a technical infringement. It wasn’t his fault, just numbers on a sheet. It was the strategy that had won the race, that had beaten everyone else, even if they took every point away. 

But he had won, for an hour. He had won. And that hour didn’t count for anything.

By the time the car dropped him at his building, dusk had set in, the Mediterranean flickering dull silver beyond the harbour. The city still glittered because Monaco never stopped pretending it was beautiful, but the light hit wrong tonight, too harsh on his tired eyes.

He went straight to the built-in wine fridge, its hum the only sound in the flat. The rows of bottles gleamed in ordered symmetry, labels facing forward, every one a memento from somewhere that had once mattered.

Near the bottom sat a single bottle he had bought himself, years ago, for a reason that now felt embarrassingly optimistic. A vintage champagne, too expensive for what it was. He had told himself he would open it when he won Monaco. He had never even taken it to the circuit.

He stared at it for a long time before pulling it free. The foil had dulled with age; a film of dust coated the glass neck. No one had given him this one. He associated it with no team, no podium ceremony. It was just a promise he had made to himself, and never quite kept.

He took the bottle to the counter and leaned there, thumb tracing the seam in the foil. He twisted the wire cage loose, thumbed the cork until it gave a hollow pop. The sound filled the whole flat, too loud for the hour. George drank straight from the bottle.

The first swallow bit cold.The bubbles stung going down, too sharp, too bright for the room’s heavy silence. It didn’t taste like celebration at all. The second went down easier.

George drifted through the flat like a ghost, past the tidy living room, the newly folded laundry, the medals he pretended not to care about. Everything was in its place except him. 

Halfway through his celebration bottle, the bitterness started to slip. His shoulders loosened. The fizz rushed to his head, swirling faintly behind his eyes. It was the kind of warmth that didn’t comfort so much as blur his thoughts, numb him to the memory. 

He sat down on the sofa, the bottle dangling from his fingertips, watching the reflection of the ceiling light wobble across the champagne’s surface. The air smelled faintly of salt and city stone, of Monaco pretending to sleep.

He told himself he was angry. He was furious. That was why his chest hurt. That was why he couldn’t sit still. He drank again, longer this time, until the taste dulled. The room tilted a little at the edges, like a camera lens shifting out of focus.

The champagne ran out too quickly. He found the same bottle of bourbon he had sworn he would never touch again after Silverstone. He swallowed without tasting and drank again.

Somewhere in the blur he thought about Spa, about the rain on his visor, the perfect start, the radio crackling with Wow! Well done. Awesome work.

He remembered how light he had felt on the podium, the sudden weightlessness that only winning ever gave him. It curdled now, heavy and tainted in his chest.

He hated how quiet the flat was. He hated how his mind replayed every corner, every lap, every mistake he had pounced on. He hated that he didn’t have anyone he could talk to about it. 

Alex wasn’t fighting at the front. Lewis had been his biggest competition, and now held the trophy in question. George didn’t want to think about how that fight didn’t matter, in the end. George got nothing but an empty chest, an empty spot in his trophy case. He took another drink, long enough that it burned.

He sat on the edge of the sofa, numb, with the bottle between his knees, staring at nothing in particular. His mind whirled with podium memories that counted for nothing. 

The bottle was nearly empty when he found himself laughing without any idea why. He set it on the coffee table, still grinning faintly, and leaned back.

He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for when he picked his phone back up. He wanted something familiar, maybe. Something noisy enough to drown out the sound of his own thoughts.

He typed “SuperMax” into the search bar before he could question it. The name popped up immediately, live thumbnail, title blaring.

“FORMULA ONE SPA GP REACTION”

“PAIN, BEER, and BAD OPINIONS.”

George barked a laugh. Of course he was still live. The universe had a sick sense of humour. He hesitated, thumb hovering. The chat counter caught his eye, still in the thousands, hours later. The world narrowed to the warm churn in his blood and the familiar name glowing on the screen.

He should have turned the phone face down again. He didn’t. He hit Join. 

Max’s low, slightly slurred laugh came through before the image, filling the room like honey. 

George looked over Max’s familiar setup, sim rig not in use, headset a little crooked, pint glass half-full. The chat scrolled at a speed he couldn’t read, a blur of usernames and emojis. Max was laughing at something, shoulders shaking, the sound spilling out of him light and easy.

“Literally, disqualified for bottoming too much, I can’t—” Max’s laughter filled the silence, tipping his head back against his headrest. 

“…so I’m just saying, yeah, Russell had balls when no one else did, but Mercedes didn’t ace maths, I guess. Unlucky, that one.” Max grinned at the camera. “You hate to see it. You really do.”

He continued reading chat between long drinks from his pint glass. George’s eyes lazily trailed down Max’s throat. 

“Listen, mate, I’m not saying Mercedes didn’t deserve the win. I’m saying Russell didn’t deserve to have it taken away.”

George toasted his phone in agreement with someone who was not in his sitting room. 

The camera steadied. Max was leaning on one elbow, headset slightly askew, pint glass in frame. The lighting in his flat was warm and uneven, shadows bending around his jaw. His cheeks were flushed, hair pushed back and untidy.

“I’m just saying,” Max continued, gesturing loosely with the glass, “that man made the one-stop work, and you can’t—you can’t just—rob him like that.” His gestures grew more animated. “It’s not like losing a place, or something. He goes from twenty-five points to nothing.”

The chat was a blur of emojis, inside jokes, agreement, dissent. George couldn’t read a word. He could barely breathe.

Max leaned closer to the camera, voice dropping conspiratorially. “I said it once, and I’ll say it again, one and a half kilos is not enough for Hamilton to catch him before the end.”

George snorted before he could stop himself with a bitter, choked sound.

Max laughed again, an open, fond sound that cut straight through him. “Don’t look at me like that, chat. I’m right, and you know it.”

He tipped back the last of his drink and reached offscreen for another bottle.

Max went on, sipping his pint. “Still, fair play to him, that was a proper drive. Shame about the DQ.” He shrugged, eyes flicking to the chat. “What? No, I’m not doing a dramatic reading of the FIA statement, we’d be here all night.”

George let out a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding. It wasn’t mockery. It was just Max being Max, unfiltered and alive. The ache behind George’s ribs eased, relieved, still warm with something like wanting. He turned the phone sideways and leaned back, the glow of the screen painting his face.

Max was talking about strategy now, hands moving in wild arcs. George felt the bourbon settle deep in his chest, dulling the anger but sharpening everything else. It was easier watching from a distance, letting Max fill the silence. 

“It’s the longest track on the calendar, you’re racing through the forest, mate, how fucking sick is that?” he paused, taking another slow sip, eyes flicking up with chat messages. “It has the most interesting corners, the most elevation changes—fuck, even when it breaks your heart,” Max said, leaning towards the camera. “It’s the best track on the calendar. If you don’t finish—well, at least it looks dramatic.”

George snorted softly. He took another swig. At least he had looked dramatic. 

Max laughed at something in chat just then, the timing perfect enough to feel like an answer. “Just because I lived there practically my whole life does not make me biased!” he argued with mock-offence. “Take that back.”

The stream rolled on, Max still arguing with chat about tyre strategy and the eternal mystery of why anyone trusted Ferrari’s pit wall. The bourbon was almost gone. George tipped the bottle, watching the amber line sink, and thumbed open the donation page before he could think better of it. The familiar box blinked up at him, waiting. He shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t. 

The bourbon said otherwise.

George stared at the phone, thumb tapping the table. He was too drunk to stop himself, too sober to pretend he didn’t want to hear more.

His stomach buzzed with the fizz still lingering from the champagne, but his head was vibrating with something else entirely.

His fingers hovered over the keypad, meaning to type 63 out of reflex, muscle memory. But the screen doubled slightly when he blinked, and somehow there was another 3.

633.00 stared back at him. 

“That’s… stupid,” he muttered. He tried to delete one of the threes, missed, and hit Confirm instead. The confirmation ping chimed bright and cheery, far too late.

George blinked again, then shrugged. “Fuck it.”

A few minutes later, the donation alert chimed loud enough to make Max flinch.

“Hold on—hold on.” He squinted at the screen, mouth already twitching. “What the hell is this—six hundred and thirty-three? Euros? I must be drunker than I thought, mate, I can’t be seeing this right…”

Chat erupted in a storm of “WHAT THE HELL” messages and emojis.

Max blinked, then barked a startled laugh. “All right, who fat-fingered their rent payment?” He checked the name on the donation list, and the laughter stalled. “From—oh, for fuck’s sake, Williams, again?!”

He sat back in his chair, visibly trying not to grin, visibly failing. “You—you’ve gone completely mad, mate.” Max took a long drink, eyes still flicking toward the chat as if looking for confirmation that this was real.

“What am I supposed to do with that, huh? Retire early? Buy a wind tunnel?”

The comments were spinning faster now in a blur of ‘no way,’ ‘absolute madlad,’ ‘???,’ ‘take it off for sugar daddy,’ and Max was laughing again, helpless this time.

“Oh, you lot are feral. Stop! I am not saying thank-you with my shirt off.” He rubbed his forehead, pink-cheeked, some mixture of mortified and delighted. “But seriously, whoever you are—I hope that was an accident, but if not… you’ve just paid my rent and my bad-decision tax for the month.”

He lifted his glass toward the camera, eyes bright. “Proost, Williams. Crazy bastard. What even was your question, didn’t even look—”

George smiled faintly where he sat, head heavy against the back of the sofa. Watching Max fluster was better than any champagne.

The chat detonated in emojis before he had even read the question. Max leaned closer, voice wobbling with laughter.

“‘Who blows more, Mercedes or the FIA?’”

He broke, laughing hard enough to have to set his glass down. “No, no, that’s—that’s too much, mate!” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, grinning wide. “You’re gonna get me banned, Williams. You can’t—you can’t ask that!”

The chat was already eating it up, with messages of crying emojis, “💀💀💀” filling the feed, people tagging clips.

Max tried and failed to pull himself together. “Jesus Christ. I don’t even know how to answer that. They’re both—they both—blow exceptionally, how’s that?”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Fucking hell, mate. I swear, you’re singlehandedly trying to end my career, aren’t you?” He took a long sip from his glass before muttering, “Or you just want to get me banned from races.” He raised his eyebrows threateningly but George just found it silly. 

“Whoever you are, Williams, you’ve got good taste,” he said, still smiling. “And terrible financial judgement.”

The chat flooded with heart emojis, Max rubbing a hand over his scruff and laughing.

George set his phone down beside the empty bottle, heart pounding and warm with the kind of stupid satisfaction that only came after the fact. He knew he would regret it in the morning. He also knew he wouldn’t take it back.

“All right, next question before I dig myself a deeper hole,” Max said. “Someone ask something fun that won’t get me banned!”

A donation chimed, Max’s glassy eyes scanning the message. “You guys are relentless—ah, okay, here’s one. Thank you, Maria, for the twenty! ‘If you could take any driver’s seat for a weekend, whose would it be?’”

He pursed his lips, thinking. “See, you would think I would say Ricciardo. But there is so much pressure at Red Bull, and if I only had a weekend I would want to enjoy myself.” He paused to reposition in his chair. George noticed his shirt riding up and couldn’t tear his eyes away from the thin strip of bare skin. 

“You know who looks like he’s enjoying himself? Alonso. If I had one weekend, I would go to Aston Martin.”

The chat exploded with laughing emojis and hearts. Max shook his head. “No, no, not that kind of enjoying himself. Behave.”

He took another sip, cheeks flushed. “Yeah, no, putting up with Lawrence would be a day at the beach compared to my dad,” he laughed. “I’ll take an Aston Martin seat any time.”

George stumbled a little at that. His dad? He wondered, briefly, what the man was like, if he had the same easy smirk, the same sharp edges. If he was anything like his own gem of a father.

He pushed the thought out of his head. He had just spent a weekend in King’s Lynn for Benjy’s birthday and survived it, stormy demeanor and all.

So George had some daddy issues—sue him.

Max was still talking about Aston Martin. “You guys are so harsh on Lance. I’m not changing my answer. Alonso has had the most weekends anyway, he might enjoy the break.”

Another donation chimed. Max took a long drink, waiting for the animation to finish. “Okay, thank you, jumping_spider33, for the ten. What’s next—‘What team do you think parties hardest after a win?’”

“This kind of depends on the drivers, doesn’t it?” He squinted at the screen. “I mean, I bet Gasly went all out when he won Monza with AlphaTauri. And Norris—yeah, see, that’s what I’m saying—Norris has the whole DJ thing. He’s been there for so long, mate, I’m sure McLaren went insane after Miami. The teams, though, that’s a bit harder.”

He laughed at something in chat. “Zak Brown would fist pump if McLaren won a driver’s championship. Mate, he’d be so embarrassing.”

George couldn’t help laughing with him, both at the truth of it and at how disarmingly adorable Max was when he giggled like that.

“Ferrari tries, but they get emotional halfway through and start crying, mate. It’d be a sob-fest half an hour later.”

Max’s voice had gone warmer, carrying that little lilt that made everything sound like an inside joke. “Mercedes—” he paused for effect, raising his glass, “—Mercedes celebrates by running diagnostics.”

The chat howled. Max winced dramatically, hand to heart. “See, now you’re making me feel bad! Okay, okay—fine, Mercedes can party when they want to. They just schedule it three weeks in advance and send out a calendar invite.”

He grinned into the camera, eyes crinkling. “I’m kidding. Sort of.”

Another donation chimed. Max set his drink down, adjusting his headset while he read.

“Thanks, formula_girl22, for the ten—but no, I will not be ranking driver thirst traps.”

Chat erupted in protest, scrolling so fast it blurred.

“You’re all horrible,” Max laughed. “If I look at one thirst trap, my algorithm’s fucked. You know this.” He paused, taking another sip. “Okay, okay—maybe it’s a little fucked already.” He threw his head back, laughing, and George felt that sound reverberate behind his ribs.

“Like, everyone can agree Leclerc is beautiful.” Max paused to read the chat. “No, objectively beautiful. Like a cat is beautiful.”

George frowned faintly. He didn’t really see it.

“Sainz has that rugged prince-charming thing—the hair, you know?” Max ruffled his own in imitation.

George snorted. He shouldn’t have found that as attractive as he did.

“Piastri’s a baby,” Max complained, rolling his eyes. “I’m not ranking infants.”

George laughed too hard, suddenly, and the sound startled him.

“Ricciardo is definitely handsome. And that smile, have you seen his smile?” Max groaned, closing his eyes. 

George felt a strange sense of envy for something he had never even considered. 

“Alonso definitely was hot,” Max continued, “I’d say he’s more of a DILF now. I think he is shorter than I am—hold on.”

He pulled up a height chart. “Mate, Fernando is 1,71! No way am I leaning down that much.”

George bit the inside of his cheek, grinning as Max scanned the table. 

“Ah, Daniel is 1,79. He seemed taller to me,” he said wistfully. “Yeah, I’m like, 1,81?” he described. “You lot—oh, my God,” he laughed. “No, I am not lying about my height for stream. You can measure pixels when I am standing again.”

George was taller than Max and Daniel both, at least. He sniffed indignantly. He imagined looking down into Max’s eyes, just a little. It startled him how much he wanted those eyes laughing in close range.

He tried not to think of leaning in and kissing those lips. 

“No, see, Albon and Ocon are the tallest,” Max continued, cursor circling their names. “They’re both 1,86.” He squinted, leaning towards the screen. “Russell’s 1,85. Have you seen that video of Alex talking about—” he giggled, the alcohol fuzzing his humour as much as it was stoking the flames of George’s mix of anticipation and anxiety at seeing himself discussed. 

“Chat! I’m talking about height for wholesome reasons. Get your minds out of the gutter!”

Without warning, Max opened a new tab. “I mean, Albon is funny. Not really my type, honestly.”

A slew of images of his best friend flew by, some of the popular reaction images making George snicker. 

“You guys are crazy,” Max said, typing georgw russell hot’ into the search bar. “There is a clear winner here.”

The words hit George like a punch. He sat bolt upright as his photos filled the screen, shirtless, photoshoots, training images, his own face sifting through Max’s fingers.

Max lifted a hand to the camera, laughing. “See? I rest my case.”

George’s pulse thundered. The laughter on stream felt too close, too private, too knowing. He couldn’t tell if the heat crawling up his neck was humiliation or something worse.

Max pulled up George’s post from the Grand Caymans. “I’m sorry, are we looking at the same person, here? Look at him. He’s like a Greed god, or something. Jesus.” He clenched his teeth like it killed him to even look. 

“You guys need standards—yes, okay, someone knows what I’m talking about.” Max scrolled to the photo of George in a skin-tight sun shirt from the same post. “Fucking Christ, even with a shirt on, you can see how hot he is,” he groaned. “Just imagine waking up to those abs, those hands. His girlfriend is so fucking lucky, I swear.”

George’s brain melted out of his ears. Max thought he was fit???

Was George even allowed to hear this, without Max knowing? He felt like he was spying on someone’s personal preferences. It made him feel dirty. It also turned him on a shocking amount. 

Too bad Max didn’t know George no longer had a girlfriend, having split with Carmen before the summer. Oh, the joys of relationships as a Formula One driver. 

Max was still talking. “Dante, shut the fuck up about Hamilton. Hamilton is mid at best.”

George barked a laugh in disbelief before he could stop himself. Max was chaos incarnate, dragging him through every emotion on some bollocksed speed run, and George couldn’t look away.

“Okay, okay, we can objectify more drivers next time,” Max said, expression softening into a grin. “I’ve got to sleep at some point. Yes, back to normal stream schedule. I’ll see you lot on Tuesday. Good night, sleep tight…” he giggled once more, “…don’t let the FIA bite.”

The stream cut to black.

George stared at the empty screen, the reflection of his own face faint in the glass. He exhaled in relief, or something like it. But it didn’t last. 

The flat felt wrong without Max’s voice in it, too still, maybe. He set the phone down, but his pulse wouldn’t settle. And then his phone dinged.

You have 1 new Whisper.

He squinted at the screen. What the fuck was a Whisper?

George fumbled through the Twitch app, thumb too heavy, eyes not quite cooperating. Everything seemed to double and blur, letters dancing over each other. He really had drunk too much.

Eventually, he found the tab labeled Whispers. And there, sitting neatly at the top of his inbox, was a name that nearly stopped his heart.

SuperMax.

He tapped it open.

Whispers

SuperMax hey just wanted to check, did u mean to send 633

George just stared. Max had messaged him, privately. Max had looked at that ridiculous donation, thought about it, and checked in, purely for George’s sake. 

His stomach swooped. He couldn’t think of what to say. Every possible answer sounded insane or needy or both. His thumbs hovered uselessly over the keyboard while his mind scrambled to catch up with his heart.

williams_racing63 👍

He hit send before he could overthink it. The reply came almost immediately.

SuperMax cool, just wanted to make sure. thanks so much again, really x

George blinked at the little “x” at the end, at those few pixels of intimacy. He stared until his eyes stung, unsure whether to laugh or cry or throw the phone across the room.

How could someone who could hold thousands in the palm of his hand want to reach out to him?

He sank back against the sofa, the bourbon-heavy haze giving way to a strange, fragile warmth that filled his chest until it ached.

He kept blinking at that little x, like maybe it would disappear if he stared long enough. His mind spun in useless circles, trying to land on the right combination of words, something light, casual, not deranged.

He typed ‘no worries’. Then deleted it.

‘all good!’ Delete.

‘you’re welcome!’ God, no. He sounded like someone’s gran.

He rubbed a hand over his face, groaning. How did he talk to people again? How did normal human interaction work?

The typing bubble appeared. His heart jumped into his throat.

SuperMax hey btw why 63? u always donate that lol

George froze. His brain blanked completely. How many donations did this man get in a week? And he had still clocked the number. His number.

George swallowed hard, palms sweating. He wanted to delete his account and go live in a monastery.

He typed one thing, deleted it. Eventually he settled on the truth, like an idiot. 

williams_racing63 my favourite driver’s number 

He stared at the screen, immediately regretting every word. He might as well have shouted that it was Benjy’s number. The reply came a moment later. 

SuperMax ha nice. we can stan russell together then

George set the phone down on the coffee table and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

Who the fuck was Stan. 

After a short panic and some drunk searching, George had translated what Max actually meant. George was grinning—God help him—like an idiot. It was stupid. He was drunk. It meant nothing. Except it didn’t feel like nothing.

That should’ve been the end of it. George should’ve turned off his phone, gone to bed, slept off the champagne and regret.

He sat there, watching the chat thread like it might sprout something else, heartbeat still thudding behind his ribs. The flat had gone utterly still. It was just George and the buzz of the phone in his hand and the faint fizz of alcohol in his veins. Then, the screen lit again.

SuperMax btw u didn’t have to send that much tonight appreciate it though hope ur alright x

George stared until the words blurred together. He shouldn’t have felt it like this, like a hit straight to the chest. He wasn’t all right, not even close. Everything he typed either sounded like a confession or a lie.

williams_racing63 bit of a shit day if im honest

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

SuperMax ah that sucks if i could send u a drink i would 🍻 though judging by ur donation ur probably already there 😅

George snorted a laugh. The cursor blinked at him like a heartbeat, taunting.

williams_racing63 ha maybe a bit depends what you’re pouring?

He read it twice and sent it anyway. It was too much. Definitely too much. 

He told himself he only wanted the typing bubble to appear so he could know Max was awake, not because he craved the attention. The buzz in his chest was definitely only the champagne.

SuperMax ha, good answer. beer for honesty, gin for courage. which do u need tonight?

George’s breath caught. His brain offered restraint; his fingers refused.

williams_racing63 courage sounds more fun. reckon i’ve had enough honesty for one night

He watched the words appear in the box like they belonged to someone else. The typing bubble popped up again. Every second stretched.

SuperMax good answer always did like a brave one

George felt the air punch out of him. He should stop now. He absolutely shouldn’t—

His thumbs were already moving.

williams_racing63 brave’s easier with good company

He hit send before he could think. The glow of the screen lit the curve of his stupid, traitorous smile.

SuperMax brave and smooth tonight, arent we 😏

George’s smile widened before his brain could stop it. He should say something neutral, something that didn’t sound like he was flirting with a stranger over Twitch messages.

williams_racing63 that’s the bourbon then

He was shameless and stupidly easy. He watched the typing bubble pop up almost immediately.

SuperMax id say keep drinking, but im not sure i could handle that

The air left George’s lungs. He shouldn’t read into that. He knew he shouldn’t. But the line curled through him all the same, teasing and soft, like Max had just leaned close enough for the words to land against his ear. It made something inside him twist.

williams_racing63 guess we’ll have to test your limits sometime 

His thumbs had moved before his brain caught up. When he realised what he had sent, it was too late. There was no taking it back.

He could almost hear Alex’s voice in his head. You absolute idiot.

The typing bubble blinked with its animation. 

SuperMax ha. i think wed both be in trouble if that happened 

George stared at the reply, pulse hammering against his ribs. He wasn’t sure if Max meant it as a joke, a warning, or an invitation. He stared at the words until they blurred. The room felt too still, his heartbeat too loud. The typing bubble blinked again.

SuperMax alright, braveheart, i should get some sleep before i say something worse 😅 goodnight, williams x

They were just words on a screen, but George felt the smile from them. Max always had that lazy warmth, and it came across in his words, too. His mouth ached from smiling back.

williams_racing63 night, max

He didn’t wait for a reply. He set the phone face down on the pillow beside him and lay back, staring at the ceiling until his eyes closed.