Predictions
"You'll be promoted."
"You'll be demoted."
"You'll be sacked."
"You'll be moved to another section."
Danny rolled onto his side, and grabbed his drink from the coffee table. Vodka. Again. It had to be a sign. A danger sign, no doubt. "You'll be tied to a desk."
Zoe hugged a cushion to her stomach and stared at the roof. The light fixture wavered and dissolved, leaving behind a warm gun and a pair of worn shoes. "You'll have to work with Ruth."
He rolled onto his back. "I like Ruth."
"So do I."
Danny smiled. "You'll have to work with Sam."
"I'd rather work with Tessa." Zoe laughed.
"Don't let Harry hear you say that."
Silence. Danny could hear her breathing. Steads breaths. The sound of someone very much alive. "I promise," she said.
Danny put a hand over hers. "They'll have to promote you."
"They'll bring someone new in," she said.
"They'll split us all up," he said.
"They'll feed us to the wolves."
"They'll give us awards."
"They'll . . . "
They fell silent. And waited for the phones to ring.