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Out loud, almost. Somehow.

Me: That’s not an answer.

Not Evan: It is accurate.

Me: Accuracy is not the same as cooperation.

Not Evan: No.

Me: Are you pulling these answers from the internet?

Not Evan: No.

Me: That was suspiciously fast.

Me: Are you a doctor?

The typing dots appear.

Disappear.

Appear again.

Not Evan: Yes.

I sit up straighter.

Well. That explains the nerve wizardry.

It doesn’t explain why a doctor is answering a wrong-number neuro panic after midnight, but people have hobbies. Some knit. Some run marathons. Some rescue medical students from academic death and refuse to introduce themselves like a normal member of society.

Me: What kind?

A pause.

Not Evan: The kind who knows enough for your exam tomorrow.

I stare at the screen.

“That is so annoying,” I tell my phone.

My phone, loyal and spineless, says nothing.

Me: You understand how suspicious that sounds, right?

Not Evan: Yes.

Me: And you’re choosing to remain suspicious?

Not Evan: Yes.

I laugh under my breath.

Me: Do I at least get a name?

Another pause. Longer this time.

Not Evan: No.