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back home in June, and we’ll talk then, see if we can’t give it another try.”
    I stared at her, disbelieving. Graham had come over to my side, was crouching down on his haunches, opening the portfolio. He took two envelopes and tried to hand them to me, and when I wouldn’t take them, dropped them in my lap. He murmured something to me, but I didn’t hear it.
    “You’re really doing this,” I said to Van.
    “It’s done.”
    “Who’re you replacing me with? You replacing me with Birch? That beanpole son of a bitch?”
    “Birch is busy.”
    “Who?”
    “Oliver Clay. He’s meeting us in New York day after tomorrow. That’s when we’re making the announcement.”
    The urge to cry was sudden and almost irresistible. “No, no way.”
    “It’s Clay.”
    The finality in her voice was clear, but I tried one last time. “Don’t do this to me, Van. Please don’t leave me behind.”
    “You’ve got a flight to catch.” She stood up. “We’ll have your gear sent on as soon as we’re back in the States.”
    I just sat there, watching as she walked away, toward the restaurant off the lobby. Graham followed close behind her, casting me a pitying glance. Click came around behind me, and put his hand on my shoulder, gave it a brief squeeze. Then his hand was gone, and when I looked up at him, he was walking away, too.
    I felt the weight of everyone in that lobby staring at me as I got my bags together and went outside to catch a cab.

CHAPTER 8
    The sunlight came, assaulting me. It pulled at my eyelids, trying to scratch my corneas, and when I rolled to get away from it, my right hand lingered, not ready to come with me. I pulled, felt pain slicing through skin, and forced myself to look.
    I was in bed, my bed. There was blood all over the pillow next to me, and my palm was stuck to it, flat. I lifted my hand, watching as the pillowcase followed the motion, and then the fabric ran out of play, and I was lifting the pillow, too. The pain came back. I gritted my teeth and pulled again, and the weight of the pillow peeled the accidental bandage free. Fresh blood began leaking to the surface.
    The rhythm sections of several collegiate marching bands were working on a quick time in my head. When I tried to sit up, they went batshit, really going nuts. My stomach didn’t appreciate it, either, and told me it wanted to leave, now.
    I went to the bathroom and threw up, mostly dry heaves, and something that looked like it wasn’t meant to actually be outside of me. When it was over I leaned back against the counter, staring at the shower stall, feeling shaky and hollow. The room smelled of vomit and stale beer, and there were shards of broken glass on the floor, and smears of blood. A bath towel was in a lump by the door. Blood had dried in mud brown on the white terry cloth, and I had a feeling it wouldn’t ever come out.
    Seeing the towel reminded me of my hand, which was still seeping. I reached up and pulled another towel from the rack, and just that left me breathless and queasy again. I wrapped my hand with the towel, went back to staring at the shower stall door. There was no water visible on the glass, and I tried to use that as some sort of benchmark for how long I’d been out. A while.
    I was wearing a pair of sweatpants I’d forgotten I owned, and a T-shirt. There was some blood on the T-shirt, on the right sleeve, which I figured must have gotten there when I’d pulled the thing on. I couldn’t remember doing that, but I couldn’t remember trying to clean up spilled blood or getting into bed, either.
    Somewhere, downstairs, the phone started ringing. There was a phone up here, too, but I didn’t hear it. I was in no hurry to find out why. I was in no hurry to move.
    I just wanted to curl up on the floor and die.
    It was evening when I woke again, and I was cold from the tile, but this time my first urge wasn’t to throw up, so that qualified as progress. I hadn’t turned on any lights, and it was