"Not in here," you say. She nods and gets you to the balcony, where the night air is cold enough to feel like a hand on the back of your neck. You lower yourself to the floor, back against the railing. She crouches to bring her eyes level with yours and rests a palm against your cheek. You are shivering, and you both feel it. "What happened in there?" she asks. You look past her, out at the street. "I saw John." "Talking might help." "Did you know this call centre was never the plan?" "Nobody's plan was this call centre," she says. "I was going to be a doctor. You were a finance guy." She leans in. "You never told me what made you leave." "I didn't leave." The words come out flat and old. "I was pushed out." And for once you do not reach for the version that protects you. You tell her the shape of it, John, the promise, the silence, the firm that took your steadiness and then fired you for letting it show, and you leave out only the part that is happening right now, because that part would turn her concern into something you could not survive tonight. [[Cybercrime/The_Phisherman/Back home|Ride home]]