Mrs. Phelps stormed out of Montag's house, horrified at what she had just been wiyneds too. It was as if she had just seen Montag kill another man. A book! She thought. How could my best friend's husband have a blasted book. I mean, he's a fireman for christ sake! She paused for a moment to enjoy a quick chuckle of that iromy before going back to her mental rant. Can I ever see Millie again? Are we even allowed to speak to eachother after what happened? Suddenly, a wave of panic hit her, like a baseball player hits a home run. "What if they come after me. I listened to Montag's foresaken poem. I mean, what is "Dover Beach anyway? Mrs. Phelps walked down the stairs and hopped onto the subway just as the doors were closing. She arrived at her station very quickly. She then quickly walked up the stairs, down the street and entered her own home. She could hear her husband, talking to the programs in the den. "Haha, at least I have a fourth wall in my parlor" She called out to her husband.
"Arthur!"
"What is it honey?"
"I'm going to go to sleep. I feel tired."
"But the program, we have twelve lines tonight!!"
Mrs. Phelps was tempted to participate, but then remembered why she had rushed home in the first place.
"That's alright Arthur, had a bit to much to drink is all. Tell me about it in the morning"
She walked down the hall and opened the door to her room. She changed into her pajamas, and then walked over to the small portrait of her and Arthur which hung above her dresser. She delicately lifted the photograph off the wall, revealing an indentation in the wall hiding a small bottle of whiskey, a pack of cigarettes and she produced a highly-polished steel lighter. She lit a cigarette and poured herself a drink. So my best friends husband, a fireman, has book. He read it to me. He read me a book. A book. She took a swig of her drink. She knew she had to do something. She finished her drink and smoke, put the photo back on the wall and walked down the hall, hearing her husband talking to the programs. She reached the telephone. She pulled out a thick catalouge of numbers and found a praticular number. She dialed it into the phone, looking back at the number written in the book after every few numbers or so she punched in. The phone rang twice before a man picked it up on the other line.
"Firehouse, Captain Beatty speaking."
"Hello Captain, I have something urgent to tell you..."
