“Medical recovery?”
“Too dramatic.”
“Personal commitment?”
“People move those.”
She typed for a moment.
“Unavailable?”
“Will that work?”
“No idea. We have never tried it.”
She turned the screen toward me.
Five empty days appeared after the final show.
No interviews.
No fittings.
No meetings.
Nothing waiting to become urgent.
The space made me nervous.
I left it there.
Twenty One
Ellie
By ten on Tuesday morning, Captain Pancake had stolen one sandwich, rejected half a banana, and trapped himself inside a display of children’s snorkels.
It was a productive day by his standards.
“Do not reward him,” I told Hank.
Hank was crouched beside the display, trying to remove a pink snorkel from around Captain Pancake’s neck without bringing down the fins behind him.
“I’m not rewarding him.”
“You’re holding cheese.”
“It’s a negotiation.”
“He has no leverage.”
Captain Pancake placed one paw against a cardboard box.
The display leaned toward Hank.
He handed over the cheese.
The dog stepped free.
