It took me a few days. I puzzled over the numbers. I tried rearranging them. I tried deciphering them with various codes. Finally, frustrated, I even put them into a search engine, hoping for a hit. Nothing.

Bianca saw me scribbling with it one day while we were eating breakfast in the kitchen.

“What’s with the German phone number?” I stopped, pencil in midair.

“How do you know it’s a German phone number?” She shrugged.

“I saw a thing on TV the other day. Look,” she took the writing instrument away from me to use as a pointer, “double zeros, followed by the country code of 49. Then, you have the area code for whatever region, which is two to five digits, omitting the leading zero when calling from abroad. Follow it all with the actual telephone number.”

I looked at her curiously. That was a lot of very specific information to have picked up from a television show. But, I had long since stopped questioning my sister’s memory. For years, scientists have been at odds trying to disprove eidetic memory. I certainly wasn’t going to hold Bianca up as proof positive, but given the proper application of concentration and thirty seconds, her recall of both audio and visual was nothing short of astounding.

She just shrugged again and put the orange juice back in the refrigerator. Gathering up my things, I returned to my room, secreting the wireless phone in my pocket. I closed the door carefully behind me and spread the sheets of paper out on the bedspread.

Looking through my notes and hypotheses, it was clear that it was all in vain. The number string’s meaning had evaded me at every turn. Why not try it as a phone number? I dialed, suddenly a little nervous. I had no idea what this was about and I hate walking into situations unaware.

The line never even rang.

“Ms. Pavo, I presume?” The voice conjured up images of an elderly French gentleman. At the time, I remember thinking it was funny that a Frenchman in Germany was speaking very prim English to an Italian. I also remember being concerned that he knew who I was without me speaking a word.

“How do you–”

“I know all manner of things, Ms. Pavo. All you need to know is one: 1313 Via Buia. Do you?”

“Yes.” The only response I received was a muffled click as he hung up the phone. I grabbed my keys and a jacket, barely saying goodbye to Bianca as I ran out the front door. She called after me as the rain plastered my hair to my face, but I kept jogging. Once you’re soaked through, you can’t feel it anymore. It was less than a mile to La Via Buia, but I would definitely be drowning by then.

I kept up my pace as I followed the sidewalk. 1310… 1311… 1312… 1314… I stopped and turned around. 1312… 1314. Cautiously, I entered the former, a caffé with an unsavory reputation. Clutching the mace in my pocket, I approached the counter.

“Mi scusi, I’m looking for suite 1313. Can’t seem to find it from the street.” The man behind the counter smiled at me in a way that was really more of a leer.

“1313 is upstairs. But… It’s occupied.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Suit yourself. I’m not going up there.”

As quietly as possible, I entered the door next to the bar and climbed the narrow stairs. There was a single, naked light bulb illuminating the well and the concrete steps looked like they hadn’t been washed in years. When I reached the top, I straightened myself out as best I could before knocking. After a moment, the door opened and the man from before appeared. He didn’t smile. He simply stepped aside and motioned that I might enter.

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