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A woman stands in the corner of a bathroom stall, a cell phone pressed to her ear. She whispers, “Michael, please be okay.”

A smooth female voice answers, “All circuits are busy. Please hang up and try again later.”

* * *

In the front lobby, a sheet of water trickles over a corporate logo down into a bed of pebbles where a hidden pump hauls it up again. The floor of the lobby is cold marble tile, and the walls are warm-hued hardwood, lined with glass cases themselves lined with gleaming awards. A phone is ringing, but nobody answers.

A small crowd stares at the wide-screen television built into the wall. The ever-present stream of stock quotes marches across the bottom of the screen, but everyone is paying rapt attention to the images of high-rise buildings imploding and collapsing.

A static-y voice speaks, “... but the military will not comment on the nature of the anomaly. The National Guard has cut entry for civilians to the entire Los Angeles county, and is evacuating the area. In spite of the order, we ...”

The voice crackles and dies, and is replaced with a clearer voice. “We seem to have lost our  satellite connection. For further analysis, we will now go to ...”

* * *

Up a flight of stairs, a young couple huddles in a break room, picking nervously at a stack of stale donuts.

“Someone told me that it's moving up the coast.”

“Should we leave San Francisco? I have family in Petaluma.”

“I ... I don't know. I don't know.”

* * *

Down the hall is an office. The walls of the office sport diplomas and awards. Centered in the office is a large hardwood desk with a polished surface. The desk is lined with meticulously organized stacks of paper, two pens, and a matte black laptop computer.

The owner of the desk drums an angry beat into it while speaking into a corporate cell phone.

“I want that office evacuated! I don't care what it takes! Those are my people, and I take care of my people. I will get them out if I have to drive the whole damn way to Orange County myself!”

* * *

Several hundred miles away, and several thousand feet in the sky, a Learjet banks north. Behind it, the sky boils with an angry black smear.

An executive in the plane barely notices the motion as he talks into his handset.

“Dammit, why didn't my sell order go through? With the mess in LA, prices are going straight to hell. Do you have any idea what is at stake here? I have twenty million dollars on the line here, and that is twenty million dollars that is going to come out of your ass if this is not fixed.”

* * *

The woman leans against the side of the bathroom stall, her phone still clutched to her ear. “Micheal, please answer. Please answer, Micheal. Micheal. Micheal ...”

Her shaking hands thrust a cigarette in her mouth. She holds up a lighter. It clicks and sparks, then clicks again, and then clicks again. Angry, she throws it in the toilet. It breaks the water with a hollow “plink”, then settles down against the white porcelain.

The busy signal sings in a taunting monotone.