That was the first thought to enter Daniel’s head at the godforsaken hour of six-thirty the following morning. When his sleep-addled mind eventually realised that the racket was coming from his phone, its next question was: Who the hell is calling me at this godforsaken hour? Daniel reluctantly opened one eye and then the other one as he slowly reached across to the nightstand for his offending mobile phone. He’d thought he’d put it on silent, as was his usual habit before he turned in, but judging by this persistent din, he obviously hadn’t. And it wasn’t even ringing—no, it was even more annoying than that: it was chiming every time he got a text message. And guessing by the continuous, frantic trill, he was going to have a veritable essay to read in text format. Must be a work emergency, he told himself, as he readied for whatever fires he was going to have to fight on his Saturday. But it wasn’t a work emergency. It was Holly.
