“Hello, who is this?” She responds as she scurries through the New York hustle and bustle, Park Ave Subway Exit.

“Ding. Ding. Ping.”

“My gosh, will my phone leave me the fuck alone.” Frantically, she swipes up and presses the moon symbol, “Do not disturb.”

Weaving in and out of the clueless crowd, she nudges her way to the entrance of the New York City Radio Head for her book talk debut. Norah lived a constant “spur of the moment” life. Since she was young, her parents were nomads. Alaska one month, Oregon the next, heck! Let’s try Vietnam. The sporadic moments of change were no stranger to Norah.

“Caller one, who do we have here?”

“Hi…um, yes. Where do you get your inspiration from? This story you have written is quite dark, gloomy, and chaotic.”

“Great question, caller one!” “Aside from Poe always throwing me for a crazy whirlwind, I used to get night terrors as a child. I would write down the dreams as a mode of therapy. I discovered my journal three years ago and ran with it.”

“Ah, I see.” “And who is this no name stalker?” “Who was he inspired by?”

Norah felt a sudden knot in her stomach. She tightened her hands into a fist, took a gulp, and breathed, “caller one, do I know you?”

Click. The caller dropped the call.

Norah pulled out her phone and immediately checked the phone number of the text message from earlier in the day.

UNKNOWN ID.

“Shit.”