I am awoken by the phone in my study. It does not ring long—four or five times only. I check my alarm clock. It is seven-thirty. No-one who knows me would call before ten or eleven. Well, everyone who knows me also knows that I hate the phone, anyway. And then I get it. The local newspaper must have published my open letter to the regional governor, and it must have been his office calling. There is no other explanation. Of course, it does not even cross my mind to respond to the call. I try to fall asleep again, but I cannot. The letter keeps returning to my mind. I must check the local newspaper as soon as I get a chance. In the end, I decide to get up. It is eight-thirty already. Before I go to the bathroom, I shuffle to the study. The phone remembers all incoming phone numbers. When I press the right button, I find nothing. Not a single number. Zilch. I dreamt that the fucking phone rang.