Home for less than an hour, she’s separating junk mail from the bills, lobbing flyers and envelopes toward the recycle bin without looking up, hitting it about half the time. Near the basement door, her empty roller bag is clammed open next to a mound of dirty clothes that smell like Location. She tears open bills and stacks them next to her laptop, determined that this time she will set up accounts online. Amid the detritus of advertisements and campaign flyers is a fat manila envelope forwarded from the station. Inside are a dozen envelopes, handwritten with return addresses and names she doesn’t recognize, likely more snail mail versions of the many e-mails Cassi’s continuously scrolling through: requests for certain guests RayAnne should want to have on the show as much as they do—Pink! Snookie! Some mail has been downright weird, like the marriage proposal to RayAnne from the survivalist who could barely spell but had offered as a dowry one fenced, off-the-grid, two-hundred-acre compound where they would “not be bothured”
