“No need. I trust you. Trust, it’s often lacking when we need it the most. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Hoffmann dropped the envelope onto the desk next to the microphone stand. Inside was a stack of bills that added up to twenty thousand dollars. They’d once been part of a much larger stash in a suitcase he’d carried home from his hellish trip to North Africa. Enough for a family to get by on for a while.

When the doctor didn’t immediately pick it up, Hoffmann pushed it across the desk to him and wouldn’t let go until the money exchanged hands.

“Now you’ve got your fee. What you came here for. I want you to do what I came for.”

The doctor was wearing a pair of frameless glasses balanced on his nose, and he held them to keep them from falling off as he leaned over to put the envelope into his briefcase.

“Very well, please begin by speaking into this.”

The microphone. That’s what Hoffmann was supposed to use.

“What should I say?”

“Whatever you like. I need at least twenty seconds.”

Piet Hoffmann leaned closer to the microphone while the doctor clicked open a window on the computer screen to something that looked like a regular chart. The scale on the left read Volume (dB) and the scale at the bottom read Pitch (Hz).

“What you say isn’t important, it’s how it sounds.”

Piet Hoffmann sat in silence. It was ridiculous—he had no words left. What should a person say when they have no background and don’t want to be identified if anyone ever heard this?

“I’ll start recording as soon as you begin. Go ahead.”

“Phonetogram.”

He looked at the doctor who nodded for him to continue.

“Ground floor. Nasolabial fold. Detcord. Jammers. Positioning. Encryption code. Phonetogram. Ground floor. Nasolabial fold . . .”

Hoffmann interrupted himself.

“Is that enough?”

On the screen, a choppy pattern had appeared. Like a map, points linked together in straight lines that formed the borders of a country, or maybe an island in a checkered sea.

“I’ve made many a recording here. But what you said, what was it now?—well, that was a first.”

“Just what I had in my mind. A crossword I solved this morning.”

“I know I said it could be whatever you like. But unfortunately that’s not enough. It’s important that you speak more . . . normally. Complete sentences. So I can establish your basic vocal range. Maybe you could tell me a story. Or describe what it looks like at home, tell me about your children, if you have any. Anything that sounds normal.”

Piet Hoffmann did as he was asked. Let his mind lead them through a house he always longed for as soon as he stepped out of it. But he replaced all names, reversed all the facts.

“Good. Good. So . . . two girls?”

“And a newborn baby boy.”