“Yes, Jay.”
I returned to my desk and started flipping through my agenda book, then I paused. My eyes lingered on the contact details for Friedman’s Election Consulting. The sounds of the bustling office seemed to shrink behind me as my brain fought with my soul over an idea.
The internal arguing continued at the base of my conscience for the rest of the day into the night. Literally. Hours later, as I stood in my loft’s kitchen—twilight flooding the windows and police sirens ringing below from somewhere nearby—I rapped my fingers on the countertop. Two objects sat in front of me: my phone and my agenda book open to the page with the information for Jay’s dinner tomorrow. I still hadn’t called to delay it. I had to act soon; Friedman’s offices closed in ten minutes. I reached for the pho
