He works the phone all morning, calling to remind his clients to take their pills and drink lots of water, and to reassure them that the voices aren’t real. Some of them he calls and calls again, hoping that on the third or fifth or eighth call they’ll give in, pick up, and maybe even recognize his voice, hear and heed his advice.
By noon he’s pretty toasted from the effort, buys himself a Coke and picks up his journal, goes down to sit in the shade beside the lake, contemplate its smooth surface like it’s a giant crystal ball, and try to divine what comes next. The only other beings he encounters are a few ragged gulls scavenging the shoreline for scraps and a pair of loons forty or fifty feet out, bobbing and diving for whatever it is loons dive for. He watches them for the longest time, thinking about how quiet it must be just below the surface. He wonders why they come back up at all.
He can hear the snarl of a revved engine on the bank far to his left, somewhere out of sight. He can’t tell if it’s a chainsaw or a dirtbike, only that it’s small and angry sounding. It echoes across the water and comes back at him almost a full second later, only slightly smaller but just as angry. When he can’t stand it anymore, he heads on back to the office.
There’s a meeting going on in the conference room; he can hear voices through the wall. When he gets to his desk, the phone is ringing, but he can’t bring himself to pick it up.