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Time: Late night on the 23rd -- full moon night, moot-night. Blinking new
      message on the answering machine. 

"Rina? S'Thomas." He's been drinking; she knows that rough Slavic slur.
      "Y'there? ...Nng. S'pose not. Y'out. Good." The disappointment's audible, 
      though it's resigned, not accusatory. "Hope y'dancing. Always was good 
      t'see you dance." There's a pause of a few seconds, and she can dimly 
      hear the mumble of television. "It din' go that badly. Everyone was 
      distracted by... y'know. Jarred-Lucas thing. D'I tell you about that? 
      ...No. No, s'pose I didn't. Mnh. Anyway. We'll catch up. T'morrow, 
      w'ever. I'll be at the house, y'know the number. Call me if y'need me." 
      He pauses, then adds, "Call me if y'don'." The old private joke, though 
      he delivers without much energy. Then again, she'd remember that he's 
      usually a morose drunk, when he's not being an angry one. "Nigh'," he 
      finishes, and then hangs up.
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