“I hope you’re going undercover as a homeless person,” were the first words out of Roger’s mouth that evening.
Head bowed over his desk, scribbling notes in the margins of a thick, binder-clipped document, I’m not sure when he’d glanced up long enough to see what I was wearing. (For the record, a faded navy-blue T-shirt I couldn’t recall buying peeked from beneath my jacket, over gray sweats with no holes.)
“I’m going from here to self-defense class,” I snapped, feeling defensive already. I’d failed to grab a late-day snack, which meant I’d either drop to the floor or kill someone in class. “And I’m dressed fine. It’s not at one of your fancy gyms with key cards and saunas and… juice bars.”
I had no idea whether Roger had a gym membership, but if he did, it would be a fancy one. Of cour
