Cold dread coiled in my gut, but I swallowed it. “I had a medical emergency on the way.”

The whispering woman near the elevators spoke up, her voice carrying. “Apparently the emergency was a mud-wrestling tournament.”

More laughter rippled through the lobby. My fingers dug into the soaked folder until the cardboard tore.

Inside were my resume, my references, and a Polaroid of Milo in his wheelchair.

Before I left our cramped apartment that morning, he’d painstakingly tapped out a message on his speech tablet: Don’t let the suits scare you, Captain. They put their pants on one leg at a time — just with exponentially more expensive pants.

The receptionist picked up her phone. “Ms. Crane? Your 8:45 has arrived. The Bellamy interview. She’s… here.”