Marta minimized the balance-check tool. She opened a blank notepad. "Tell me about Leo. While you look for the card."
She could have said it. $4.62. Transaction over. But instead she smiled, even though he couldn't see her.
A long, staticky silence. Then: "He’s not coming home, you know. My son. He sent this card three Christmases ago. Said it was for 'emergencies.' But the real emergency is that I've forgotten the sound of his laugh." prepaid cards enquiry
Marta’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. "I’m sorry, sir, but without the number, I can’t access the—"
Marta walked back to her desk, the fluorescent lights suddenly not so dim. The next call flashed: "Prepaid Cards Enquiry." Marta minimized the balance-check tool
"Certainly. Can I have the 16-digit card number, please?"
Marta adjusted her headset, the cheap plastic pinching her ear. The fluorescent lights of the call center hummed a tired lullaby. She’d been doing this for three years: "Prepaid Cards Enquiry," her designated queue. While you look for the card
Marta felt the lump in her throat rise. She wasn't supposed to do this. She wasn't a therapist, a priest, or a daughter. She was a "Prepaid Cards Enquiry" agent. Her job was zeroes and ones.
