The supervisor slid a piece of paper across the desk. It was a handwritten note, scanned and forwarded from a nursing home. It read: "Thank you for the two hundred dollars. I bought a bus ticket. I'm going to visit his grave for the first time. You gave me back my legs."

And her answer was $200. A lie. A gift. The only thing she had left to spend.

The screen flashed: Incoming call. Wait time 0 seconds.

Based on the findings of the prepaid cards enquiry, the following recommendations are made:

"I know," he cut her off, not rudely, just tired. "I know how it works. I just… I wanted to hear a voice. The automated line told me to press eleven different numbers. I got lost."

For the next seven minutes—an eternity in call-center metrics—the old man told her about a boy who built a telescope from cardboard tubes, who hated mashed potatoes, who enlisted because he thought it would make him brave. Marta listened. Her supervisor walked by twice. She ignored him.