A/N: A reader once asked me some interesting questions about my original story 'Time's Up', like how the shooter obtained the protagonist's cell phone number, and why he might have been following her. This short story is my answer. (If you've never read 'Time's Up', I urge you to go there first, then come back and read this. I think it will make more sense that way.)

TIME’S UP:

Prologue

“Hello? He-l-l-o-ooo…Rachel, are you there? Hello…”

I was sitting on a train, homeward bound, trying not to draw attention to myself while I held my cell phone to my ear. I stared with annoyance at the face of the bulky, outdated piece of communications technology. The display screen was cloudy with wear and scratched rather badly. The power bar indicated the battery life was totally depleted, even though I’d left it in the charger overnight as per the manufacturer’s “full charge” instructions.

I’d been talking with my best friend, Rachel, when the phone suddenly died, cutting me off mid-sentence. With an angry pout,I shoved the phone into my shoulder bag and resigned myself to a conversation-less commute home. It was the third time in a week the phone had pulled the same stunt, and I made a silent memo to myself: “Time to get a new cell phone!”

Truly, it had given me five years of good service, surviving a multitude of accidents and unintentional abuses. With the latest failure, though, I decided to accept the fact it had finally given up the ghost.

There’s a cell phone dealership that’s within walking distance of the train station at which I usually disembark, situated next to a rather busy shopping area that includes a department store, hardware store (warehouse, is more like it), several restaurants and fast-food chains and other essential services.

I don’t usually go in for impulse purchases, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to go more than a few days without a working cell. Majority of my time is spent away from my home. When people dial my number, they want to reach me, not an address.

It was late evening when I hit the cell phone store. I noted it was fairly close to the end of its business hours for the day. Still, there were about half-a-dozen patrons being tended to by two staff members. The door had one of those bells attached announcing the arrival and departure of any customer, so when I entered, it jangled noisily. One of the staffers, a tall man of about 30 or so, looked up from the woman he was helping and said: “Be right with you.” I smiled back and gave a short nod in reply.

I took that opportunity to peruse the wares: Flip-phones, camera phones, and even TV phones announced their presence to me on their own individual pedestals, along with a little card detailing their other pertinent features. I idly wondered what on earth someone would do with a TV phone, since it would probably suck the life out of the battery after 10 minutes of viewing. Obviously, my own dead phone left me jaded and critical of the viability of cell phone battery life.

What I really needed, I concluded, was a phone with a decent plan for minutes, text messaging, good battery life and signal strength. All the other flashy add-ons would simply be a waste of my hard-earned money.

I’d just about come to the end of poking through all the possible phone accessories the store carried when the sales clerk who’d motioned to me earlier approached and said: “Sorry for the wait. Can I help you?”

His nametag simply said: “TRAINEE”, so I decided I was going to be extra nice, but short and to the point.

My mind was made up about the model I wanted by then, so I said: “Yes. Follow me, please. I’m pretty sure I know what I’d like to purchase.”

He took my lead and I pointed out a small, silver flip-phone with a colour screen. In fact, the term ‘flip-phone’ was probably redundant, as all the phones in the store ‘flipped’ open.

“My old cell phone’s battery is completely dead,” I said by way of explanation. “It’s a really old phone as it is, so I decided to go ahead, bite the bullet, and get a brand new one.”

“You’ve made an excellent choice,” he proclaimed cheerily, upon seeing my selection. He gave a lop-sided smile that I wasn’t sure was entirely sincere, but I dismissed it as new job jitters. Some people have the misfortune of sounding like they’re patronizing when they are being completely honest. “If you trade in your old phone, we can sign you up for a 2-year plan. 300 minutes per month and unlimited evenings and weekends. You also get some free ringtones you can download, and this new phone comes to no cost to you after a mail-in rebate.”

“Sounds like a deal to me,” I replied, pleased that even as a new staff member, he sounded reasonably informed about the products.

The tall trainee gave me another lop-sided grin. He maintained a solicitous look that lasted longer than was professionally polite, I thought with a hint of annoyance. He’d already made the sale. Any pretence of friendliness to gain my confidence ought to have been dropped by now. Instead, I felt my cheeks growing warm with discomfort.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a very nice voice?” he said out of the blue.

Truthfully, I’ve received compliments on my singing when I’ve had the chance to solo. But that was years ago in my high school choir days, and it was usually the parents of friends, and they were being nice and courteous for the most part. I’ve also been told I have a ‘warm’ singing voice, and to my ears, it tends to have a husky edge. Some would probably describe it as ‘throaty’. But no one’s ever commented before on my speaking voice.

“Um, no, not really,” I replied to his inquiry, feeling flustered by the unwelcome attention.

“It’s lovely,” he persisted. “You should be on the radio, or something. Voice-overs on commercials and things like that.”

I gave a tight smile, and motioned with my eyebrows to the model of cell phone I was ready to take home. In case he still didn’t take the hint, I cleared my throat.

“Sorry. The phone. Come around here to the desk and I’ll get it out for you along with the contract.” From the nearly imperceptible slump of his shoulders, I could tell he felt somewhat slighted and disappointed that I was ignoring his compliment. But I simply hadn’t the time or patience to put up with a flirtatious sales clerk. I already had a steady boyfriend, Troy, and this tall trainee wasn't in any position to dethrone him.

“So, you have the old phone with you?” he asked when he pulled out a box containing the new cell phone and a form for me to sign.

I dug into my shoulder bag for the antique and handed it to him without a word.

“Oh, yeah, this is an old one. I haven’t seen this kind at all. But I’ve only been working here for a few weeks. Where do you work?”

“Look, I really don’t have much time to chat,” I said, trying to speed things along, abandoning my previous decision to be extra nice to ‘TRAINEE’. “I’d like to see and sign the contract and make my purchase quickly.”

A certain look flashed across his face for the briefest of moments and then disappeared. “Oh, sure,” he said amicably after a pause, and slid the contract towards me and unclipped a pen from his front shirt pocket. I read over all the ‘fine print’, was satisfied with what I was getting, then signed on the dotted line.

“I’ll activate the phone right now,” he said, removing it from its box.

“Great,” I said, with little enthusiasm.

“So, you can keep the old phone number you’ve always had, which is 555-6402...and how will you be paying?”

“Credit,” I said, and pulled the card from my wallet.

I signed the receipt when it printed, and the trainee bagged my purchase along with the mail-in rebate.

“There you go,” he said, handing everything to me.

“Thanks,” I said, and turned to leave.

“See you again sometime, okay? Talk to you later!” he called after me.

I doubt it, I thought to myself as the bell on the door jingled as I exited. In the lingering twilight of the Summer night, I hurried towards the train station/bus depot to finally head home, quickly putting the brief conversation I had with the sales clerk out of my mind.