cutting into those Zs

This morning around 9:30 I received a few calls from 109 asking to be connected to 100. This always irritates me, as I fail to understand why it’s necessary for someone to dial 0, wait for me to answer, then request the other room, and then wait for me to connect them instead of just dialing the three digits themselves. But I digress.
After the third call, she called me at the desk and asked me to go into 100 since they weren’t answering. I told her that I was sorry, but that we can’t go into rooms unrequested like that unless there’s an emergency.
“Well, I’m his mother and he’s not answering,” she told me, and then demanded that I go with her to knock on his door. Since I didn’t have much else to do, I agreed.
A few minutes later, a tiny old lady in her eighties arrived at the office, and we went down two doors to her son’s room. She knocked once, and then demanded that I open the door with my passkey. “Ma’am, are you sure he’s not just sleeping or in the bathroom?”
“No, there’s something wrong!” she insisted. “Why wouldn’t he answer?”
“Because he’s asleep or in the bathroom?”
She knocked once more, but there was no answer. “Can you open it?”
“If he’s upset about us opening the door, you will have to assume the blame, ma’am.”
“Why would he be upset?”
Because he was asleep and his mother and a stanger opened the door on him for no apparent reason, I thought to myself, but shrugging, I tried my passkey. The lights flashed green and red, indicating that the door was locked from the inside, and all but impossible for anyone to open from outside. I explained this to her.
“Well, what do we do now? There must be something you can do? What if he’s had a heart attack?”
“Does he have heart problems, ma’am? Is he at risk for a heart attack?”
“No. He does smoke, though.”
Just then, the door was unlocked and opened, and there was a very irritated grown man standing there. “What is it?” he asked his mother.
“Well, I thought you were ill!” she explained.
“Why would you think that?”
I left her to him.
Shortly after, he came into the office. “My mother is crazy,” he told me, sounding for all the world like an embarrassed teenager. “She won’t leave me alone! Like I’m going to die today! I was really getting some good Zs, too. I sometimes ask God why He won’t release me from this torture, but I guess He’s got a plan.” He sighed and shook his head, then wished me a good day.

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