Bob was having a nightmare. In it, he was wearing a prom dress, even though he was thirty-two years old. The prom dress was covered with sequins and stank like pee. Bob, in his nightmare, felt ashamed of himself, so he opened the closet door to hide inside. Thousands of dead batteries tumbled out, covering Bob and leaking acid all over his prom dress. Bob cried out for help, but nobody was around; he reached for the phone, which had materialized just out of arm’s reach, but he was immobilized under the mountain of Duracells. The phone started to ring, and then the answering machine picked up. It was Rachel from Cardholder Services. Bob died of suffocation, and then woke up. His answering machine was in the process of receiving a message from Rachel, just where his nightmare had left off. He picked up the phone and pressed one for more information.

An operator offered to assist him. “Bob,” she said, “I’m calling from Cardholder Services because, while nothing is wrong with your account, we can assist you in reducing your debt of fifty-five thousand dollars and nine cents.”

“I don’t have any debt,” lied Bob.

“Bob,” said the operator, “you may not have any debt, but do you have any batteries?”

Bob pinched his thigh to make sure he was awake.

“Bob,” said the operator, “prom is in an hour, and you can’t go wearing that dress. It smells and pulls at the waist.”

“Is this Rachel?” asked Bob. “Are you inside my head? How did you get inside my head?”

“That’s where I live, Bob,” said Rachel. “And you can lie all you want, but I know about your debt, and I know about your dreams. I know about everything.”

“No,” insisted Bob. “That’s impossible. Put me on the line with your superior. Get the manager on the line right away.”

“I am the superior,” said Rachel. “I am the manager. It’s always me. It’s always been me.”

Bob brought the phone into the kitchen, where he kept his bullhorn. He pointed the bullhorn at the phone and screamed into it. He put the bullhorn down and placed the phone back on his ear. “How did you like that, Rachel?” asked Bob.

“I didn’t like it very much,” said Rachel, “it hurt my ears. So I poisoned all of your bottled water.”

Bob looked at the unopened case of bottled water on the floor near the refrigerator. It had cost him $11 and had enough bottles of water to get him through next Tuesday. Surely everything was fine. There was no way to poison water over the phone, especially since the seal on the caps was unbroken. The water was fine. Of course, the water would be fine.

“Go ahead,” said Bob. “I’m done talking to you. Don’t call here again. I’m on the Do Not Call registry.”

“I’m on the Do Not Bullhorn registry,” responded Rachel. “All bets are off, Bob. Won’t you let me manage your debt?”

Bob began to think quickly and outside of the box. “Officer,” said Bob in a quiet and even tone, “this is the number. Trace the call. Thank you officer. Thanks, officer Mike with the Los Angeles Police Department. Trace it, and then arrest this person, as you said you would. Yes, very good. Thank you, officer.”

“Bob,” said Rachel, “you really shouldn’t have done that. You know I hate when people try that stupid trick on me. You made it impossible for me not to place a bomb in the undercarriage of your Volvo S70. I didn’t want to make your car explode as soon as you turned the ignition key, but you really gave me no choice.”

“Ha!” laughed Bob. “It’s an S40! You had me confused with Ricky Daneshgar from down the road!”

“Thanks for the correction,” said Rachel, “but because you laughed at me, I’ve just placed bombs in the undercarriage of all the Volvos on your road.”

Bob listened to a series of loud explosions go off up and down his street.

“Well, I was planning to bike to work today anyway, Rachel,” replied Bob. “And as you probably know, I haven’t yet bought the bike I’ll ride, so good luck tampering with all of the bicycles for sale in Los Angeles.”

“Oh really, Bob?” asked Rachel. “Well, good thing I had all of the money in your bank account wired to Time Warner Cable. I hope you have good credit to buy that bicycle. Oh, wait, you don’t have good credit, because you’re fifty-five thousand dollars and nine cents in debt.”

“Good thing I’m sick today anyway and wasn’t planning on going in to work!”

“Yes, I know, you’re very sick. I’ve just given you diphtheria.”

“I have no symptoms!”

“It’s asymptomatic for the first five days. Then your skin takes on a bluish hue, you get chills, and you die.”

“There is a 90% recovery rate,” corrected Bob.

“Not the kind I gave you,” corrected Rachel. “You’ll open the hall closet to get some batteries, and then your diphtheria will worsen, and you will suffocate. Unless…”

“Unless? Unless I manage my debt with Cardholder Services?” Bob stared out the kitchen window and saw his neighbor, little Sally, making her way with her mother to their Volvo S60. “Don’t get in the car!” Bob yelled at the window. “Little Sally — don’t get in!”

“They can’t hear you,” said Rachel. “That window is stuck closed, isn’t it?”

It was.

“Now, real quick, do you want us to assist in managing your debt, Bob? Or do you want the deaths of all of your neighbors hanging over your head in your last few days of life before the sickness makes you hallucinate?” Rachel gave him a minute to think. Little Sally’s mother opened the door to the Volvo.

“I’ll take the diphtheria,” said Bob, and hung up the line. He heard the Volvo S60 explode as he hefted his case of bottled water into the dumpster.