53
Music blasted into the black void of sleep. VNV Nation, the middle of All Our Sins. The sin of technical debt, the ringtone of disaster.
An arm, somebody’s arm, reflexively grabbed the phone and dragged it to an ear. Something soft was in the way. A head thrashed. A pillow. A wrong pillow.
“Hello?” someone groaned.
Dale. His name was Dale. His arm, his head, his groan. Still the wrong pillow.
“It’s Will. How are you?”
“What’s broke?” Dale muttered.
“Everything’s green. I was worried about you.”
“Woke me up.”
“Oh, I’m sorry! You’re usually awake by noon.”
Noon? Dale rubbed his eyes.
A line of bright sunlight burned past the edge of the drapes, turning the oversized hotel room into cavernous shadows. His tongue tasted bad. A headache throbbed against the inside of his skull in
