Samuel Worth’s 2003 Saturn Ion wound its way through the tunnels and bridges of external Chicago. The clouds above were so glutted with rain that they threatened to break and pour down on the helpless humans below.

Samuel Worth’s mood reflected the darkening sky. He was an average middle-class American. Worked as an attorney for the Chicago Caritas Juvenile Court. Dealt with punk, surly adolescents all the time. And still couldn’t handle his own.

Suddenly, his phone gave an annoying little monotonic ring tone.

“Sam Worth,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Ah, then this phone number is correct.” Worth narrowed his eyes – the voice sounded almost like a smug teenager. “As is, I take it, your date of birth, credit card, and social security number.”

“Who is this?” Worth snapped.

“078-05-1120, Mr. Worth.”

Worth’s eyes widened, then narrowed as he clapped the phone shut with sudden force. He re-opened it and dialed 9-1-1.

“Ah, ah, ah, Mr. Worth. None of that, now,” the same voice chided him.

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