Claire had the transcript typed up by eleven, and she carried it over herself instead of sending it through the tube.

The intake counter at the station smelled of floor wax and someone’s warmed-over supper.

“You typed this up yourself,” María said.

She still hadn’t taken off her jacket.

“Word for word off the console.

Times down the left margin, every last one.”

María flipped to the second page and ran a finger down the column of numbers.

“Nine fifteen and forty seconds, caller connected.