She turned and ran all the way home, staying in bed for two days pretending she was sick but mostly just crying under the covers, partly from embarrassment and partly because she couldn’t understand how her sister could be so mean.
So when Megan came into her room now and said, “There’s something wrong with Dad,” Jackie’s guard was already up.
“Uh-huh,” she answered.
“Look outside. We’re on TV.”
Jackie was skeptical, but there was something different in her sister’s voice. She went to the window.
A throng of reporters was dissipating on her front lawn. Some were packing up sound equipment, some were capturing a last shot of Jackie’s house for network news B-roll, and some were walking to their cars. It was like a flash mob had met, played their prank, and were now heading home.
Jackie started for her door to go downstairs, but Megan caught her arm.
“Jax,” she said, her voice catching, “don’t.”
Then the two sisters sat on the bed together, something they hadn’t done in years, and Megan told Jackie everything she’d heard.
“Wait. Daddy’s dying?” Jackie asked when Megan finished.
Megan nodded and burst into tears. She flung herself into Jackie’s arms, sobbing into her big sister’s chest. Jackie was too stunned to react right away. But crying is like yawn-ing; once one person starts, the other person can’t help but join in.
***
The defining emotional moment of Hazel Huck’s life happened when she was seven years old. Her dog, Boots, was drinking out of his bowl, lapping mouthful after mouthful of water while Hazel waited patiently behind him. It was a well-rehearsed script they acted out with glee each morning.
Boots would lick Hazel’s hands and face until she woke up and then lead her to the door. She’d let him out, watch him do his business, let him back in, and feed him. Hazel would then stand exactly nine steps behind him (nine was her lucky number) and watch him eat. Each morning Boots would assault his kibble as if it were his first meal in weeks, making sure he chomped every last piece, and then drink half his bowl of water. When he was done, he would turn around, see Hazel, wag his tail, and nuzzle his wet face into her belly.
On this one morning, after he was done with his water, Boots turned around, wagged his tail, took a step toward Hazel, and fell over. Hazel screamed.
The vet, a tall thin man with a tall thin nose, a wide thin mustache, and a high thin voice, said, “Brain tumor.” Hazel, a precocious seven, was pretty sure she knew what that meant. A lump was growing on Boots’s brain.
“Can you scoop it out?” she asked.
Her mother burst into tears when she saw the hopeful look on Hazel’s face. The vet got down on one knee so he could look Hazel in the eye. “I’m sorry, precious, I don’t think we can.”
The day they buried Boots in the backyard, Hazel did all she could to fight back the tears. She didn’t think Boots would want her to cry. When the last shovelful of dirt was thrown on his grave, Hazel let go, and it all came out. She ran into her house, flung herself on her bed, and didn’t come out of her room again that day.
When she saw Jared Stone on the news ten years later, with his wife and dog, talking about his brain tumor, the memory of Boots came flooding back. She went straight to her computer and sent a message to her fellow Warcraft guild members with the subject: “Alert! Alert! We have to help Jared Stone!”
***
The evening Ethan Overbee saw the news clip of Jared, any thought of his assistant, Monique, went right out of his head. His first thought was, Holy shit. This was followed by his second thought, Holy FUCKING shit! These two thoughts were followed by a complex series of thoughts that formed the basis of a new idea in Ethan’s head. He needed to act fast.
Ethan had only been at the studio for three years, but already he felt he was languishing in the shadow of the executive in charge of programming, Thaddeus St. Claire. Thad had taken Ethan under his wing and was grooming him for the top job a decade or so down the road. But young people, especially young, rich people, and especially young, rich people missing a certain marker on chromosome 15q, don’t wait years—let alone decades—for things to go their way. Ethan saw an opening now and was going to take it.
“Monique,” he barked into his speakerphone. “I need to find someone who just posted something on eBay. It’s urgent. Do we have any contacts there?”
“I’ll check, Ethan,” she answered, betraying no hint of the revulsion she felt in simply hearing his voice. “Can I ask what this is in reference to?”
“I’ve just discovered the reality TV series of the century.”
***
Sister Benedict Joan had her doubts about the veracity of the eBay listing. Certainly no one could be foolish or Godless enough to sell himself into oblivion. But that night she saw the man on the late news.