Brenda Kowalski set three yellow legal pads with brass clips on the folding table and tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear.

On the corner of the desk sat a stack of fifty-dollar parking vouchers and a paper plate with three cold bagel halves.

“The stadium gates open at eight o’clock,” Brenda said, holding her clipboard tight against her navy blazer.

“I went through the master guest list twice to clear up yesterday’s double seating assignments.”

“Did my mother call back?” I asked.

Brenda picked up the top clipboard and checked a pink routing slip clipped to the edge.