It’s twenty to four, and after more than six hours, I’ve made no gains in figuring out what might have happened to Billy last Sunday night – any more than I’ve ascertained who is reporting my photos on social media. Leaning against a clubroom pillar, I sink into that pre-dawn slump. I’ve lost all expectations of discovering any sort of truth before sunrise.
But what did I expect? When it comes to Billy, I can do nothing but remind myself that his death has nothing to do with me, and I really should leave well alone. As for i********:, I’m not going to achieve anything at work. I need to wait until I have some time and space to compose an email asking for my account to be reinstated, and figure out a game plan to see if I can’t put a stop to the harassment. The same applies to those weird
