Tom was on call. He held his phone close to his side to be sure to feel it's gentle vibe. He held it firm, so as to not drop it on the street. He was on call, on the ball, one-for-all, clear in thought. Tom was waiting. Imperial nomads surround the wounded fly. Fiasco starters circled him with their chaos prods and blow-torches. Tom held his phone close. He listened. He watched. The mob encroached him, then gave him space, then encroached. Power play. Good-bye addicts. Memory stokers. Sinking ships aching to get to shore. Incompatible combination locks and wounded locksmiths. Tom's phone gently vibrates and he lifts it to his ear. "Hello?"