Marra put on her headset at seven-thirty and the first toll-free call of the day came in at seven-thirty-one. A woman from Arezzo who wanted to know why the February bill was higher than January’s. Marra opened the customer file, looked at the consumption, looked at the rate, and answered in the voice she always used, a voice calm and clear and slightly slower than the one she used outside the office, because the quality manual said that clients perceive competence from the speed of the voice and trust from its steadiness.

«The bill reflects the actual consumption for the two-month period, ma’am. Consumption in January and February was higher than the estimate.»

«Higher by how much?»

«Twenty-three percent. It may be related to the outside temperature.»

«And the next one?»

«The next bill will be calculated on the consumption for the March-April period.»

The woman from Arezzo thanked her and hung up. Marra closed the file. The toll-free display showed fourteen calls waiting. Marra pressed the button and the next voice entered the headset.

She had worked in the gas company’s customer service for six years, on the seven-thirty shift, which was the shift nobody wanted because early-morning clients were the angriest, the ones who had opened the envelope the night before and hadn’t slept, and Marra took them all, one after another, with the same voice, the same patience, the same phrases the manual called “standard responses” and which Marra knew the way you know prayers, that is, without thinking about the meaning of the words.

Standard response number seven: «The price of natural gas is determined by the Regulatory Authority for Energy, Networks and Environment based on procurement costs.»

Standard response number twelve: «We are unable to provide forecasts on future rates.»

Standard response number three: «You can consult the details of your consumption in the customer area of the website.»

The responses were on a laminated sheet next to the monitor. Marra no longer read them. She said them the way you say good morning, the way you say thank you, the way you say goodbye, which were the other three things the manual prescribed: one at the start, one when the client accepts the response, one at the end.

The memo had arrived the day before. Internal communication, not for clients. Subject: update on rate projections Q4 2026. The main supplier had declared force majeure on long-term contracts. Two liquefaction plants damaged. Estimated repairs: three to five years. Projected impact on consumer rates: an increase of between thirty-five and forty-five percent starting in the fourth quarter. The memo also said: «Please do not share this information with clients until the Authority’s official communication.»

Marra had read the memo, folded it, placed it in the drawer under the laminated sheets of standard responses. The memo was not a standard response. It had no number. It was not on the sheet. It was in the drawer, which was the place for things that exist but are not said.

«Listen, miss.»

«Go ahead.»

«I live alone. The pension is what it is. Gas in winter costs me more than rent. I wanted to ask something.»

«Go ahead.»

«Will I pay more next winter?»

Marra looked at the monitor. The client’s file. Seventy-eight years old. Annual consumption: twelve hundred cubic meters. Current rate. Projection with the forty percent increase: one hundred and twenty-eight euros more per month, from October to March.

«We are unable to provide forecasts on future rates.»

«Yes, but what do you think?»

Marra looked at the drawer. The memo was there, folded in four. The number the client was asking for was in the memo. The memo said not to tell him. The script said not to tell him. The quality manual said the client deserves a clear answer and the clearest answer Marra had was a number she could not say.

«I recommend consulting the Authority’s website for updates on rates.»

«I don’t know how to use the website.»

«I can help you register, if you’d like.»

«No, thank you, miss. Have a good day.»

«Have a good day.»

Marra closed the call. The display showed twenty-two waiting. She pressed the button. The next voice entered.

The seventy-eight-year-old man would turn on the thermostat in October, as every year, and the click would be the same click, and the boiler would ignite, and the gas would arrive, and the radiator would heat, and the bill would arrive in December with a number the man did not expect, and the man would call the toll-free number and a calm clear voice would tell him that the price of natural gas is determined by the Authority based on procurement costs, and that voice would be distance made sentence, the distance between a destroyed plant in the Gulf and a radiator in a pensioner’s apartment, a man who lives alone, and the distance would have the tone of courtesy and the rhythm of a standard response.

I worked in call centers. Not for gas, for insurance, but the mechanics are the same. The laminated sheet, the numbered responses, the voice you have to keep steady even when you know the answer is a lie by omission. The client asks and you answer with what you can say, and what you cannot say stays in the drawer, and the drawer is always closed, and the key is the contract you signed. I learned one thing, in those two years: courtesy is the most efficient form of distance. You smile, and the distance grows. The voice is calm, and the consequence recedes. The caller doesn’t know. The answerer knows and doesn’t say. And between the two, the bill.