The owner stares into the sky laying on his back, surrounded by bricks, power tools, and plaster. He's listening to the happy ringtone of his phone reach into the abandoned construction site. And finally, on the count of three, he gets to his feet, knocking over the empty vodka bottle, and stumbles towards his truck. It's ringing again when he leans in the open window and takes it from the driver's seat.

"You donkey," the voice on the other end says.

"What?" the owner looks at the screen, but his antagonist hangs up. A blocked number shows at the top of the recent call log, and returning to the home screen, his bitcoin price widget is still red. He recognized the voice, it was Brock, his best employee.

He loses track of time on the tailgate of his pickup, feeling like a small figure, waiting for the liquor to work from his body enough to drive home. He's more than halfway through a new pack of cigarettes when his wife pulls up the unpaved driveway beeping. He doesn't make eye contact or acknowledge her. She gets out:

"Honey, I tried calling you, where's your phone?"

He nods a few yards from where his feet dangle; a face-up phone with a cracked screen is there in the gravel.

"Did you hear honey?"

"Hear what?" he says taking another drag, staring somewhere beyond her.

"Blackrock, that ETF you always talk about, it's been approved!" She shoves her phone into his face.

The price of bitcoin has doubled. It's on the homepage of the WSJ. Twitter is full of emoji. His cigarette is glowing where it fell. His arms are around his wife. His former employees are speeding back to the construction site. He's discharging the firearm from his glove compartment into the heavens. Sirens wail in the distance.