I must have lain there feeling sorry for myself for at least an hour, maybe more, before I even rolled over. For the life of me I could not figure out what had caused Miss Baxter to flip out on me like she did. I’d been going to therapy, I’d been hitting the slopes regularly—if anything I thought my routine was vastly improved. So, what was her problem with me?
I had just decided I should be a big girl and ask her about it when I heard the knock on my door.
“Miss Baxter?” I said, and then felt silly. Like who else would it be? “Come in.”
I watched the door open a crack, followed by Miss Baxter’s hand clutching a white paper sack. The red on white monochromatic design showed a heavy-set man sporting a fedora and smiling around a cigar clamped in his teeth. I smiled. I didn’t even have to
