Feb. 28th, 2016 at 4:54 PM
February 28, 2016
Sinclair stands outside the police station, blinking tiredly at his cell phone. He has over thirty missed calls and almost 200 unread texts. No surprise there.
As guilty as he feels, this isn't the time to respond to any of them. The longer he stands here, the more he's tempting fate. It would be fantastic if he could just hail a cab on his own and go home without any fanfare, but he's not that stupid and this isn't the time to play roulette. He's always telling the kids in the District to ask for help when they need it and he tries to practice what he preaches.
Who to ask, though? Someone who's probably not working right now, or is flexible with their hours. (Also awake or could be awake. What time is it, anyway...) Someone who can travel more safely than he can. Someone trustworthy. Someone who won't give him a bunch of shit.
He goes to his contacts, hits the name ‘Samantha,’ and puts the phone to his ear.