“They didn’t say anything about where they were taking him?” It was a silly question, but I couldn’t help asking it.

“I’ll be notified, they said.” I imagined Howie being shoved into the back seat of a dark late-model sedan, probably making some kind of “can we stop at McDonald’s for detention?” joke to the cops. “I don’t know what to do, Rollie. Isn’t there somebody you can call?”

I hesitated. How many times had I been asked that question? And often there was someone I knew who knew somebody who had a friend. But the new answer was, not anymore. Calling somebody with enough juice to help? I almost laughed at that thought. That was so eight hours ago. It was difficult to accept the fact that the laws Americans had lived by for nearly 250 years no longer applied. “Temporarily suspended.” Right. The traditional ways of dealing with the system were done, finished. Realistically there was nothing I could do, but I wanted to hold out hope. “I’ll make some calls,” I said with as much conviction as I could manage. “You never know.”

“I’ve tried to get hold of Jenny to see if Martha could do anything. I called and I texted, but I’ve haven’t heard from her. You know where she is?”

“No.” Calmly, dispassionately, no. “I got some texts from her telling me things were crazy up there. Soon as we hang up, I’ll try again.” I shifted into the most positive tone I could manage. It actually was so good even I almost believed it. “Look, Karen, if you hear anything call me right away, okay? There’s got to be something we can do.”

While Cher was dialing Jenny’s cell, I glanced at the mess covering my desk: the scattered piles of printed pages; the cryptic notes and phone numbers I’d jotted down on torn slips of paper and yellow and blue Post-its; the rubber bands wound around pencils; the loose paper clips and promotional pens that long ago had dried up; the twisted charging cords from discarded devices; a dull scissors and a rusting stapler that I don’t think I’d ever used. It was a snapshot of a hectic life, my second life, when the story on which I was working mattered more than anything else in my world. It was residue from the hundreds of stories I had written or edited, notes for stories I was reporting, ideas for stories I intended to develop “when I had time.” It was all clutter, but it was my clutter: half a roll of clear Scotch tape, a collection of newspaper stories clipped together, a strip of undeveloped negatives from my sister, seven lucky pennies I’d found lying heads-up and I’d taped to the desk, my Rangers challenge coin in a corner where it was the first thing I’d see every morning, and my tower of cups. I tried to freeze the sight in my mind, inscribe it in my memory so deeply I would never forget it. Rollie 2.0 was over. I would never be in this office again. The record would stand forever at twenty-eight Dunkin’ cups.