Those Who Remained

Ground Zero

 "I swear to God that I'll be able to get you the money soon!"

"Sure thing, Mrs. Ryans! Say hi to little Anthony for me!"

"Thank God for you, Mr. Nelson!"

"Call me Fogg--"

Foggy winced as the door slammed behind her. The three people in the waiting room slowly looked from it to him.

He shrugged his shoulders. He knew that they'd have to replace the door eventually. (As so happens when your old office's old-new tenants are dickbags to the space).

(Seriously though. There had been no reason for his former/current office's wall to have been caved in the way it was.)

"When will my meeting be?" Mr. Goh asked, tired as ever. Ms. Mendoza shifted uncomfortably in the seat next to him.

Foggy smiled in his direction before looking down at his watch.

He grinned harder to keep it afterward.

"Ah, just give me five minutes, sir, and we'll get cracking!" he said, putting the cheer on to the best of his ability as he started creeping away as silently and inconspicuously as he could.

"You need to buy a clock for here," Mr. Gho responded, deadpan, before leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes.

"It's on the to do list, don't worry--" he shut his door behind him, "--just stop my partner from throwing them out the window every other week, and we'll be all set."

He sighed and risked another look at his shiny watch of nostalgia. It was, as per usual, followed by a grumbled curse and half-hearted regret. Foggy walked over to his desk to shuffle around his lake of paperwork, soon finding his phone under Mrs. Ryan's everlasting gift of Eviction Notice.

He dialed and waited a few seconds.

"Foggy?"

Ah, he could always bask in Karen's ability to pick up her phone.

"You were supposed to be here 15 minutes ago, Page! Here, bearing with me through the meeting with Mr. Gho?"

"Oh, shit, I'm so sorry--"

"Taking notes while I ponder why he intimidates me? Although, I'm not complaining if you're bringing that Everything Supreme bagel I've been yearning for since last Tuesday."

There was a little laugh on the other end. "No, sorry Foggy. I'm... uh, I'm a little ways away right now. I'll get there as soon--"

"Hold on," he interrupted, "why do you sound like that?"

There was silence.

"Karen, what happened?"

The silence continued.

Foggy's mind groaned internally and externally.

"Did it have to do with Matt?" he guessed, squeezing the bridge of his nose as hard as he could.

An inhale.

"...Yeah... yeah it did."

The groaning continued with more enthusiasm.

"Okay, well what--"

"Matt will probably tell you soon enough."

"Great," he muttered, covering the mic of his phone while he thought. He fast-walked to the window to get a sense of his clientele.

You'll be fine, Franklin Nelson, a voice echoed in his brain, eerily similar to both that of his mother and his authoritative Aunt Suzie. It's just 50-year-old, four-and-a-half foot tall miner from Singapore who definitely doesn't care about the location of your head, whether it be on your neck or on a platter in front of him.