I took my wife’s phone in for a simple repair on a wet Tuesday morning in October, and by noon, the man behind the counter was looking at me as if he had just seen a ghost. Jake Morrison had known us for years. He was not some stranger in a strip mall, not a technician who saw customers as ticket numbers.
He had eaten hamburgers in our backyard, fixed our laptop after it crashed with our vacation photos still on it, and helped Melissa and me set up the smart TV the Christmas we both admitted we were too tired to read another instruction manual. He knew my wife. He knew me.
He knew our quiet little life in Portland well enough to tease me about the way I always carried exact change for coffee. That was why his face frightened me before he ever said a word. He pulled me aside behind the counter, his fingers still trembling from the phone repair, and whispered, “Roger, buy a ticket and leave the country.”
For a second, I honestly thought I had misheard him.
“What?” I said. His eyes moved toward the front window of the shop, then back to me. “I’m serious.
Don’t go home tonight. Don’t call her from your number. And don’t assume anything about your life is what you think it is.”
My mouth went dry.
“Jake, what the hell are you talking about?”
He did not answer right away. He only handed me my wife’s repaired iPhone, now wearing a temporary screen protector, and turned it so I could see the message thread open on the screen. The conversation was with someone named Victor.
I did not know any Victor. The newest message was short. The work is almost finished.
He suspects nothing. The reply came from Victor. Good.
Timeline remains the same. Melissa had answered:
Two more weeks maximum. He has been asking fewer questions lately.
Victor had written:
Perfect. He cannot discover the truth until we are ready. Everything depends on maintaining the illusion.
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