“What sense does that make when someone is losing their job?” Liza’s mic swiveled and nearly hit Pantsuit in the face. She hopped back and straightened her suit. Liza pressed her nails into her palms.

“I’ll just leave you to collect your things,” Pantsuit said quietly.

The door closed with a soft click, and Liza threw her headphones into the cluttered corner. Everyone was right about her, and she had been wrong about everything. What had she gained for sticking her neck out? Liza’s mind tumbled forward into the inevitable conversation with her mother. She would sigh. It would be impossible for her to pass up the chance to say “I told you so.” Her brother and LeDeya would laugh behind their hands. Granny would shake her head.

She had been blinded by WIC’s charm, but she had done actual work on that proposal, and she deserved to be paid for it. She’d been avoiding WIC, but if she could get a small fee for her work, it could hold her over until she got an inevitable office temp job. It was time for her to get real about her future. If she wanted to do international human aid, she would start where she was—improving the city block by block.

OFF THE RAILS

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Sharon, this is my third time reminding you that DFitz and DFatz are two different accounts. I have not had the board meeting yet, but I appreciate the company’s speculation about my job security.

I hear we’ve put an intern on suspension for excessive tardies. After investigation, I found that he lost his apartment and now has to make it here from Jersey every morning. Reverse this suspension immediately. And let’s try to supplement his train ticket or flex his hours. In the future, I would like us to be more thoughtful in our punitive approach to changes in work performance.

Respectfully,

D

Ten men and one woman sat with lips pursed and arms folded around a polished oak table. The weather was warm, but the temperature inside the boardroom was glacial. No one fidgeted, no one coughed into their sleeve, no one reached for the carafe of coffee on the table. They sat in stony, unified silence as he reported the lack of movement on the Netherfield properties. He was launching into reason number seven why permits had been blocked and agreements were unsigned.

“Dorsey, look, this thing has gone off the rails. My grandkids are showing me memes of you and that rabble-rouser every time I turn around. You brought her to our gala?”

“Her grandmother’s garden—”

“You brought her and danced with her. You looked like a damned fool out there.”

“Don’t you see she is turning the tide of public opinion? Do you see she is winning?” a dark-haired man said.