I’ve learned this person - let’s call her Stacy - owes a bunch of money to a bunch of people, and they’d like it back.

A number of these people find it hard to believe that I don’t know how they can get in touch with Stacy, because they all ask me if I know her new number.

“We’ll make a note of it,” they say, and they thank me in thankless voices.

Some of these people employ auto-dialiers, followed by stern-ish announcements, followed by a bored-sounding attendant.  I stay on the phone because I want to tell them I am not Stacy.  Many of them believe me.  I suspect some do not, despite my patently un-Stacy-ish voice and claims to the contrary.

One of the groups looking for money is a hospital.  They are especially persistent.  No matter how many times I tell them I am not Stacy, they find it necessary to call me again and again.

They have taken to wardialing me on a semi-daily basis.  I answer the phone by saying my name (“Bob Corrigan”, I announce, in an official-sounding, stern-ish voice), and they hang up.  I know it’s them because I CAN SEE THEIR PHONE NUMBER.

She didn’t tell all the people she knows that she’s changed her phone number.  They seem genuinely sad when I tell them I don’t know what her new number is.

I’ve been tempted to ask them about Stacy.  I’ve resisted this temptation.

I get about a call a day for Stacy.

Good luck, Stacy.