With his hand still on the doorknob, Dorsey asserted calmly, “It would take me seven lifetimes to run into that problem.”

THE HOTEL WASHINGTON TREATY

You’re live with Liza B., The only DJ who gives A jam.” Liza put her feet up on the desk. The DJ booth was less cluttered now, and Liza could finally see the walls behind the posters, the only upside of massive layoffs.

“It’s Friday night, Liza. Could you give us some energy?”

“Hey, I have to play what’s on the list.”

“Well, I can listen to dad rock on my own. I like your mixes.”

“Say no more. I’ll have some Louisiana bounce after a few words from our sponsor. P-Pem—oh no.” Liza rubbed at her temples. She saw a nervous woman tap on the Booth G window across from hers. She saw the DJ’s shoulders slump, and the woman led him down the hallway. Another pink slip. This man was the king of assholes.

“Pemberley Development, s-saving DC one c-community at a time. Call the care line if you have c-concerns about Netherfield. That’s 1-800-Care4Yu.” Liza choked out the words. This man was appalling. Liza looked at her script schedule. Dorsey was a gold sponsor! Did he know the station was in trouble? Would he risk expanding her show just to humiliate her with commercials? Liza wanted to be furious, but the blockhead didn’t know that he had likely saved her show.

Liza laughed for a full three minutes before it was time to go back on air.

Liza looked at her calendar. It was definitely Wednesday. She paced at the busy intersection, dodging waves of cold slush as cars rushed past her. She would be an army of one today. The municipal building was supposed to be the site of a rally. But Liza had been here for an hour already. She was cold, her fingers red and swollen. Today was Wednesday, right? It was just another example of people not showing up for a cause.

Lately, her charm seemed to be wearing thin. Dorsey had laughed at the thought of dancing with her, and WIC hadn’t really been returning her texts. It was confusing because she and WIC had such a vibe. He was just the type of man she thought she should like. But in activism and in love, it seemed like her enthusiasm was never returned, and she was alone at a rally (again), texting a guy who rarely texted back (again).

In the meantime, she couldn’t go long without thinking of the tiniest interactions with Dorsey. He was permanently part of the things that took up space (rent-free) in her head: