The thing about the phones - the network - is that it's all convenient, yes, of course it is. But it's also entirely controlled by the city: the numbers, the connections, the ways it's used. One of the ways she knew Dinah was gone was that her number was disconnected. That there was no trace of her on the network, not at all.

That there was a notice waiting for her a day later reminding her that she needed a contract in three months, like she hadn't signed with two other people already.

So she doesn't recognize the number on her phone when it rings, although in truth she barely glances at it; she answers it briskly, "Yeah?" and then feels her temper flare up.

This fucking city. This fucking program. It barely even sounds like her, at least to Rosita, who has had to learn the hard way that you never get people back once you've lost them: "Fuck you," she spits. "There is no firepit, and there is no Dinah. Don't fucking call me again."

And she slams the phone closed again.