The accountant sat in his small dimly lit apartment reviewing some figures when the telephone rang.
“Adam, is that you?” inquired an aged female voice.
“No, I’m sorry. I think you have the wrong number. What number…”
“It is you, my God, isn’t it!” she interrupted.
“No Ma’am, I’m sorry, I’m not Adam. No one by that name lives here. What number…”
“What happened to you? Where have you been?” I’ve been looking for you for…”
“Miss,” the accountant piped in, having now grown impatient, “would you mind just telling me the number you were trying to reach and maybe I could help you.”
There was a short pause.
“No, it isn’t you, is it?” Her voice echoed in a distant, resolved tone. “Please forgive me young man. Do excuse me for any trouble I have caused.”
And another pause.
“It was just…and I’m sure this will sound strange to you, but it was just that, just that for a moment, you see, I mistook you…for my son.”
This momentarily absorbed the young accountant, but the line then clicked off. The accountant sat puzzled holding the receiver. But he then saw the papers strewn out upon the desk before him, quickly recalling his duty to the calculations. So with renewed purpose, he now continued with reviewing the figures, having now shaken off any prior alarm.