“You better not have brought the regular ones. I need the extralarge magnums. Bet you’d love to see why.”

“You just lost that bet.”

“My girlfriends say I’m amazing.”

“I didn’t know inflatable dolls could talk.”

“Bitch,” he muttered.

I slid the fancy gold box of condoms across the countertop. “One box of balloon animals, coming up.”

“Take them out of the box and organize them on my night table.”

“I’m not your condom curator.”

“You’re supposed to do whatever I say.” Aubrey pouted.

“Not even close. I’m here because your mommy and daddy know they screwed up raising you.” I carefully lined up kombucha bottles in his Meneghini fridge. Until I’d started this job, I didn’t know there were refrigerators that cost as much as an average American made in a year. “They know you’re a useless baby.”

“Ha ha. Your parents screwed you up, Deirdre, for you to keep working in a dead-end job like this.”

“Yeah, it’s my fault for failing to be born rich,” I shot back. “Go back to playing Call of Duty or whatever it is you do all day.” I piled a couple of fancy cheeses in the fridge. I swear, this creep ordered random things to keep me captive longer. I was probably his only human contact of the week.

“You’re in a shitty mood today,” he observed. “Who died?”

I put down a six-pack of Sapporo’s Space Barley and stared at him. There was no way Aubrey knew about my sister. He didn’t even know my last name. It would be wrong to lash out at him. He’s just a loser living on an allowance from his father, I reminded myself. He’s nothing.

“Oh, that’s right,” he added. “Your sister died. I read all about it.”

“You can read?” I said, but I felt chilled to the bone. Clients were supposed to be given curators’ first names only. But I should’ve known that rules were just for drones like me.

I tried to work more quickly.

“Are you sad about it?” Aubrey asked.

I didn’t answer.

“I wouldn’t be sad if my sister died,” he went on. “She’s a bitch. Was your sister a bitch like you?”

Tuning him out was the only option. In my haste, I dropped a bottle of tequila on the tile floor. I stared at the flood of dark-red liquid and glass shards in despair. That was Clase Azul Extra Anejo, worth more than I made in two weeks, tips included.

“Shit!” shouted an excited Aubrey, zooming in closer. “You’re in trouble now.”

I was stuck in place, mentally calculating what I would have to do to make up the cash. It was impossible. There was no way to do it.

“You better hope I don’t tell your boss.”