His Automated Reply Cost Him His Wife Chapter 18

His Automated Reply Cost Him His Wife Chapter 18

The next morning, I was in a concept meeting for a new project when my phone vibrated on the conference table. It was a message from my lawyer.

I unlocked the screen and opened the email.

*Nora, a quick update. Mr. Ethan Ward was released on bail last night. He did not go home. Instead, he broke into the garbage room of your apartment building. When that failed, he went to a waste recycling center on the West Side.*

*According to center employees, he stood beside the conveyor belt all night, trying to manually search through tons of city garbage for a single item. This morning, when he tried to stop a batch of waste from being sent into the compactor, he got into a struggle with staff, and his right hand was pulled into the sorting equipment.*

Attached to the email was a preliminary hospital diagnosis.

I opened the attachment. A line of black text stabbed my eyes: *Extensive tendon tearing in the right hand. Permanent nervous system damage.*

I turned off my phone and looked up. The colleague across from me was waiting for my opinion.

“For the design of this corner,” I said, picking up my pen and tapping lightly on the drawing, my voice as steady as if nothing had happened, “we can be bolder.”

The meeting continued.

The next day, an unknown number called my phone.

I answered. It was Ethan’s sister, her voice choked with sobs.

“Nora… please, can you come to the hospital and see him? Just once…”

Her voice was desperate. “The doctors said his hand… his nerves will never recover. He’ll never be able to draw again, Nora! His hand is ruined!”

I listened quietly. Outside the window, the Chicago sky was a gloomy gray, threatening snow.

“No,” I said.

Then I hung up.

I didn’t need to see him.

He was finally getting what he deserved.