The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A beat-up old payphone is somehow bolted to the trunk of a palm tree in the middle of a tennis court, its cord stretching out to nowhere. Like, the air's hot and dry, with this super sweet smell of fresh tennis ball fuzz and newly applied court coating... it's around mid-morning, and the sun's already high up in the sky, casting no shadows on the court. The payphone's suddenly ringing, and uh, the sound of a busy signal is echoing through the speakers mounted on the tennis court's scoreboard. A tennis ball is bouncing by itself in an endless, precise loop.