Slumped in a captain’s chair at the juice bar, Sasha pulled out of her unfocused stare long enough to acknowledge the owner of the sardonic voice. It was T.C., and he had a handful of checks for her to sign. “Make an X,” he ordered, dropping the pile in front of her and shoving a pen into her writing hand. She scribbled listlessly and pushed them back at him. Obviously exasperated, he pulled his wheelchair up close to her. “What do I have to do to get your attention these days, McCleod? Call a press conference?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re bad for business, woman. You’re depressing the customers. Hell, you’re depressing me—wandering around like a lovesick kid and staring off into thin air.” Sasha tried to mask her misery with a smile that didn’t quite come off. “Where’s your compassion, T.C.?” she said with a sigh, “I’m suffering.” She went back to staring at the tumbler of juice du jour in front of her. She was suffering, keenly, though no one seemed to understand that.
