Horace whined. “She said she’d carried me for nine months and suffered through sixteen hours of labor, and I was a terrible son because I didn’t want to stay home and keep her company.” Chase Jones rubbed the bridge of his nose as he listened to Horace’s nasal whine through his brother’s cell phone, wondering, for the umpteenth time, how Luke managed to listen to losers like this all day long without going bonkers. More to the point, how was he going to listen to them for the next six weeks? He must have been out of his mind, telling Luke he’d fill in for him as a life coach. “I tried to explain to Mother that I needed some time to myself, just like you said, but she wouldn’t listen.” Horace’s voice trembled. Shaking his head in disgust, Chase gazed down at the open file sprawled on the dining table of his Tulsa apartment. According to Luke’s notes, Horace was forty-four years old, lived with his mother, and never made a move without her approval. “I just don’t know what to do, Coach,”
