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Chapters (97)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. 1.
  6. 2.
  7. 3.
  8. 4.
  9. 5.
  10. 6.
  11. 7.
  12. 8.
  13. 9.
  14. 10.
  15. 11.
  16. 12.
  17. 13.
  18. 14.
  19. 15.
  20. 16.
  21. 17.
  22. 18.
  23. 19.
  24. SIX MONTHS LATER
  25. 20.
  26. 21.
  27. 22.
  28. 23.
  29. 24.
  30. 25.
  31. 26.
  32. 27.
  33. 28.
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  86. 81.
  87. 82.
  88. 83.
  89. 84.
  90. 85.
  91. 86.
  92. 87.
  93. SIX MORE MONTHS LATER
  94. 88.
  95. 89.
  96. Discover More
  97. About the Author

“What story?” says Zack. Proving how thoroughly he is willing to forget. If Joey is. “And hey, your next phone? Maybe a different code,” Zack suggests. Quietly. Politely. With a tight, sad smile. So this never happens again. So some nosy smart aleck doesn’t see it.

Zack hands the hot coffee with Joey’s phone in it to Joey.

Joey hands the hot coffee with Zack’s phone to Zack.

There might even be a little toast. Coffee cup to coffee cup.

If a short, nerdy kid wasn’t dead in a fifth-floor walk-up.

18.

18.

Zack walks out of the GreenGirl with Emily.

Free, he thinks.

Free, he’s pretty sure.

Free. But thinking about prison.

Prison, where you lose your identity. Your humanity. So you can come out and shoot people for a living. Or maybe you had trouble with humanity to begin with, and prison only hardened you.

Where you cease to be a name, cease to be Joey Richter, and become only a number.

As he had sat with the client at Mali’s Diner, suddenly learning Joey’s last name, learning where Joey’s last call went, Zack had gone quickly onto the federal prison registry. Where Joey’s incarceration would be a matter of public record, he figured.

He had quickly typed in Joseph Richter.

Up came a federal eight-digit prisoner number: 54095ENY

ENY for East New York region.

Even a mug shot of Joey with the number on his orange jumpsuit pocket.

Eight digits, numbers and letters.

Just about perfect for an Apple password.

His prisoner number. Who he had been. What he had been turned into. And Joey the ex-con, new to cell phones, choosing an Apple password he’d never forget.

Zack had seen Joey enter his four-digit code. That was just lucky. Or terribly unlucky.

But this, thought Zack. This was—well, luck too. A lucky stroke of intuition. And psychology, and social commentary, and sadness. A lifetime lost. The number overtaking the name. A glance not just at someone’s cell phone code, but into the truth of their life.

Enter Apple ID and password. Zack had quickly entered the eight-digit code.

He was in.

He had checked Joey’s Apple settings.

Sure enough, the Cloud was disabled.

Zack re-enabled it.

All the data, all the photos—all suddenly, instantly, sent to the Cloud. Without Zack touching another button.

“We’ve got to get to GreenGirl,” the client had said then in a panic.

The Cloud that Joey probably never really understood anyway. The Cloud that somebody must have disabled for Joey so the evidence would exist only on Joey’s phone.

Zack can now pull it down, with Joey’s Apple password.

All those pictures. All that evidence.

The diePhone. Still very much alive. Awaiting Zack.

As he and Emily exit the GreenGirl, Zack is feeling pretty good about it. How Joey took the deal.