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That was the problem with running a small business. Catastrophe did not usually arrive carrying one large invoice. It came in administrative bites. Eleven percent here. A deposit there. Software, vehicle mileage, permits, rush printing, a vendor who required payment before a client paid me.

Enough bites, and eventually there was no business left to chew.

“Fine,” I said. “Bind at the quoted rate. We’ll discuss adjustment tomorrow.”

“I still need the signed declaration.”

“I’m opening it.”

I scrolled to the signature page.

Wet signature required.

Of course.

“I need to print this.”

“There should be a copy with the full renewal packet.”

“I’m standing on an event floor.”

“Oh.”

That single syllable held an entire Sunday morning she had apparently imagined me spending differently.

“Is there a printer available?”

“Yes.”

The registration printers were available in the same sense that a fire extinguisher was available. Technically present. Not intended for casual use before the building filled with eight hundred people.

I opened the event files on my tablet and searched the insurance folder.

The carrier’s Friday message was there.

Unread.

No. Not unread. Read at 11:43 p.m., judging by the metadata.

I had opened it.

I had saved the attachment to the folder.

I had not signed it.

For one second, my mind supplied no explanation. I remembered Friday night in pieces: ballroom diagram, catering revision, donor count, a call from the museum about loading-dock access. I remembered sitting in my car outside my sublet with the engine off. I remembered opening email.

After that, nothing.

I stared at the attachment.

I had received it.

I had looked directly at it.

Then I had failed to perform the action required to keep my company insured.

“Ms. Nair?”