The voice came on a Tuesday, which was unfortunate, because Tuesdays were the one day Edward Hale allowed himself to sleep past seven.
He was halfway through breakfast—toast, black tea, the kind of meal that exists to sustain rather than delight—when he heard it. Faint, almost subliminal, a murmur at the edge of hearing like a radio tuned just between stations. "Edward." He dropped his toast. It landed butter-side up on the floor, which in Edward's experience was worse than butter-side down. It meant the universe was mocking...
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