Jane Summers immediately dismissed her first few thoughts on the music’s source — the sound she heard couldn’t have been from her television (she had just passed the blank screen, and hadn’t heard the device’s signature powering sound), her stereo (the background signal hum was missing), or from any of the neighboring apartments (the sound was clear, crisp, like it was coming from . . .)
She looked down at the kitchen table to her left. And saw it, sitting on top of a pile of magazines.
It was a small device, almost entirely black with a shiny surface. Perhaps two inches wide, about twice as tall, but shallow, no more than half an inch deep if that. A radio? Had Tori left it there last night? But it didn’t sound like a radio, and if it was why would —
There were words on the surface. Near the top. GARY CZGARSIK. From work, her boss, her — father’s friend. Was this his radio?
She picked up the device, held it up close to her face. To the right of Gary’s name was a small picture, Gary with his wife and two daughers, the family photo from Christmas. Under Gary’s name was the word mobile, in all lower-case letters. Near the bottom of this — radio? no, this, whatever it was — more lower-case words, slide to answer, with a green arrow to the left, pointing at the words.
Her face was furrowed with confusion as she stared at this, this thing with Gary’s name and photo on it that was playing Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. She nearly dropped the device when it suddenly stopped playing Mozart’s serande, and the words on the device changed. The time now displayed in large numbers at the top, the date in smaller letters and numbers immediately underneath, the lower-case letters slide to unlock now appearing at the bottom, the green arrow replaced with a gray arrow. In the middle, the words Missed Call displayed, next to a green picture of what looked like a telephone receiver.