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After she clocked back in, Sara dropped by Personnel to look up a number. Waverly would be cross if he found out, but Sara knows that his bark is worse than his bite – most of the time, at least, and besides, it wasn’t really a personal call. Or, not entirely.
The phone rang five times… six… seven…
“Hello?”
“You owe me lunch.”
“What? Who is… Sara?” Illya sounded as though he’d been asleep, and Sara felt momentarily guilty.
“I wasted my lunch break on you – cooling my heels in the waiting room of Fordham Hospital until someone would tell me what on earth they’d done with you. Do you know how long it takes to get from here to the Bronx and back on the subway?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You should be. How are you feeling? And I’d say you owe me an honest answer at least after I went all that way to find out.”
“Have you heard from Napoleon?”
Sara let the faux anger drop from her voice. “Not yet, and the tracker you planted is still out of range of the back-up team. But the Old Man doesn’t seem worried, and nor should you be. I’m sure he has everything under control.”
He murmured an unconvinced assent.
“I’ll let you know the minute we hear anything, alright? You can meet him at the airport.”
“Thank you, Sara. Goodbye.”
“Not so fast, buster. It’s traditional, you know, to let someone pick you up from the hospital. You get a wart removed, ok, take the bus, but broken bones and a concussion, you call a friend.”
“I assure you, I’m not so damaged that I couldn’t hail a taxi.”
“That’s not my point, Illya. Why, when that nurse told me you’d gone off all alone, I felt terrible.”
“I’d imagine not quite as ‘terrible’ as I feel. But you said yourself – Napoleon is out of contact.”
“Napoleon…? Illya, dear, just call me next time.”