ELENA
The conference room hums with a nervous energy, a mix of anticipation and something that feels a little like resentment. Nadine sits across from me, cross-legged and a warm smile on her face.
“The venue’s great, Luna,” one of the women, a Beta named Anya, says, her voice a little clipped.
“But what about the food for the elderly? You know, the new ones? They have very specific dietary needs.”
The question hangs in the air and the sublayer of the question doesn’t fly over my head. Anya’s not just asking about food. She’s airing a complaint, a veiled accusation that I’ve been neglecting my duties.
They don’t know about the divorce, about the separation, about the fact that I’m living in a new house. To them, I’m just a Luna who’s checked out, a Luna who has abandoned them.
I feel
