Not waiting for his response, I ended the call and clutched my cell to my chest. “Your job.” His words were as flat as matzo. Uncle Eugene huffed, the sound ripe with impatience. Opal and anyone else who might walk through our shared space, I whispered, “Let me call you back.
“Please wait,” I whispered, dipping my chin to my chest, allowing my hair to fall forward. I heard a chair creak, and then he repeated, “He’s planning to have you committed.” The unexpectedly disastrous, panic-inducing call. It had been directed to the person on the other side of my call. “Sorry,” I said to her, even though my sharp question hadn’t been directed to Ms. Opal didn’t do this often-send me disapproving looks-just whenever I spoke too loudly. Mouth pinched into a disapproving pucker, my coworker’s gaze lingered on the cell in my hand. My sharp question earned me a sharp look from Ms.
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