"Ms. Wilson, let's get your hand checked first. We're not starting production until then."
That was the first thing Stanley said when he met me at South City Station.
My suitcase rolled behind me. My injured right hand stayed hidden inside my sleeve.
The evening breeze carried the salty smell of the ocean. It brushed softly across my face.
Stanley took my suitcase from me. "Let me see your hand."
"I'm fine."
"You're only fine if the doctor says you are." His voice was calm. There wasn't the slightest room for negotiation.
I looked up at him.
Three months earlier, Stanley, one of the country's best documentary producers, had contacted me. He wanted us to create a theatrical documentary exploring family banquet traditions across the country.
Back then, I'd been busy planning my wedd
