”Vanguard…” she whispered through her blue lips:
”…Eight-thirty.”
Then the ambulance from Saint Anthony’s had arrived, the paramedics swarming the shoulder with stretchers, spine boards, and IV bags, pushing me back into the gravel.
I had looked at my watch.
08:38 AM.
The pitch meeting with Apex Health Logistics had started eight minutes ago.
I had jumped back into my Honda, my hands shaking on the wheel, my clothes covered in dirt and dried blood, driving sixty-five miles per hour through the red lights of West Colfax Avenue, praying that Nick would understand.
Praying that human life still carried equity in the twenty-first century.
I had walked into the lobby of Vanguard Creative Group at 08:52 AM.
And Nick had fired me before my heels cleared the carpet of the reception vestibule.
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The knocking on my driver’s-side window was not polite.
It was three sharp, metallic raps delivered with the heavy signet ring of an executive who believed that glass was something you tapped when you wanted a waiter’s attention:
