You’re too slow, Sheila.

Woosh.

You failed the bar, Sheila.

Electric chair.

I came to in my cheddar omelette. Kevin and James were saying my name on repeat. Over and over and over—for a second, I thought I was going through security at the courthouse. The restaurant definitely was no longer on pause—everyone was staring in my direction.

“OK, this is awkward,” I blurted, cheese stuck to my nose.

Kevin helped me out of the booth, we tossed a twenty on the table, and exited into a sunny northeastern autumn afternoon. Somehow, the breeze felt suffocating and my company’s concern (“Are you OK, Sheila?” “Can I get something for you, Sheila?”) only exacerbated it. Needing air, I extricated myself from Kevin and James, wiped 7-Eleven clean of its gossip magazine collection, and crawled into bed.

I called Sanjay, whose interest was barely piqued over my fainting spell. “Sheels, that really sucks. Are you all right? Um, ah, can I actually call you back?—medical emergency.” The phone went dead, signaling that it wasn’t my medical emergency to which he was referring.

Exhausted, I buried myself in the world of celebrity diets and Scientology, the latter of which sounded strangely alluring.

Chapter Eleven

Betsy was standing in the elevator when I stepped in. We’d not seen each other since the sitting.

“Hey, Sheila,” she said, pursing her lips smugly, “how are you?”

“Fine, fine. I, um, I’m looking forward to reading your Nelson opinion,” I said awkwardly, steering clear of Adams’s nomination, since it still hadn’t been publicly announced and Kevin had sworn me to secrecy. I hadn’t even spilled the beans to Matthew.

“Likewise—we all look very forward to reading what I’m sure will be a killer dissent—oops, no pun intended.” Ding! Thirteenth floor.

“No pun taken. Bye, Betsy.” I stepped off the elevator, trying to remember why I’d taken such a liking to Betsy the first time we met.

“Good morning, Janet. Roy.” I strolled into the secretaries’ den. Roy was watering the brittle, brown plants with what must have been his breath—something about the nicotine gum he’d taken to lately made me want to wither and die also.

Janet looked up: “Yes?”

“Um, I just said good morning, that’s all.”

“What’s good about it?”

“Nothing, actually. It’s just something I say to people when I see them in the morning.”

“Just so you know.” Janet fiddled with the cross around her neck. “Bob had a heart attack over the weekend. She’ll be in late.”

“What? She’s coming in?!” My question amused Janet, who suddenly looked like a clown about to kill a kid.

“She always comes to work. Have you not learned anything? She even worked half a day after her brother’s funeral. You think a little heart attack would keep her away!”