She opened her email.
She had forty six unread messages. Responses to the second file, media pickup, two journalists she'd been cultivating who had questions. The ordinary machinery of what she'd been building, still running, still generating noise even now.
She closed the email.
She looked at the window.
Chelsea at eight AM. The street below coming to life...a woman with a coffee, two men in suits, a delivery truck pulling up outside the building across the street. The ordinary machinery of a city that didn't know or care what was happening in a room on the third floor of a business hotel.
She thought about her mother.
