Stacy spurted into a manic monologue that was literally impossible to interrupt, even when she started sharing, in explicit detail, the exact methodologies by which she’d considered killing herself when she got “canceled” after a viral YouTube video, and discussing the success rates of each one. I winced and tried to interject as she broke every single Samaritans safeguarding guideline. As I watched this twenty-four-year-old talk about her gritty breakup, half of me wanted to hug her and the other half wanted to throw one mental health book at her that wasn’t her ghostwritten autobiography. Instead, I arranged my face into nothingness and reminded myself this was on Gah!, not me. Eventually, after calling her ex-boyfriend a “carrot cock,” which led to thunderous applause, and some eyebrow raises from stressed-looking parents sitting with their devoted eleven-year-olds—the show was over. Everyone stood and cheered, most of them in tears. I threw my arms in her direction. “Ladies and gentlemen, Stacy Smith,” and they all went crazy. As I mumbled the Samaritans’ help-line number into the microphone, they flung themselves out of their seats to join the queue to get their books signed.

Stacy turned to me, glowing with a dew of sweat and validation.

“Well done,” I said, trying not to lie. “Everyone loved it.”

“Thank you. You were a wonderful chair. It was so great to meet you. We should totally grab a drink or something one time.”

“That would be brilliant.”

And we never spoke again.

Gwen vibrated over, giddy with how well it had gone. “We’re ready for you,” she said, and led Stacy toward her signing table, her fans swooning as she passed. I followed reluctantly, knowing it would only be an hour more, max, of work before I could go home to Ben.

While Stacy’s queue snaked between aisles, my stand was essentially empty. Nobody seemingly in the market for a free corporate key ring. In fact, the queue contained only two people. I sat on my chair and smiled hello, nonetheless grateful to have them.

“Hello,” I said to a middle-aged woman wearing a damp navy anorak.

“Hello.” She picked up a key ring. “These are free, aren’t they?”

I’d been given literally no guidance from work, but nodded. “Yep, totally free.”

“Great.” And she shamelessly picked up ten key rings, dropped them into her pocket and wandered off without another word.

Normal, totally normal, I thought, readying myself for whoever was next. My next taker was younger, maybe twenty-one. Perfectly put-together in the current cutting-edge fashions. She picked up a key ring and giggled.

“Hi, can I help you?” I asked.

“I’m Caroline,” she said, like I should know who she is.

“Hi, Caroline...”

“I really loved your Hold On For Tomorrow project. I actually donated an entry.”

I sat up in my chair. “No way!” I smiled. “Really? What was your reason?”