Page 81 of The Grumpy Defenseman
The image sat on the left side of the page under a line of concept copy some marketing person had written about resilience and leadership and the authentic face of commitment.
His face.
Evan’s face.
Open in that one accidental second. Tired and human and totally, catastrophically unsuited to being turned into a slogan.
The breath left my body so fast it hurt.
There he was.
Not on my monitor in the privacy of bad judgment and blue light.
Packaged.
Placed.
Ready to become public property.
The exact thing I had feared the instant I saw the frame.
I touched the edge of the tablet with one finger, like maybe if I grounded myselfphysically, my mind would stop trying to leave my body and hide in the ceiling tiles.
“What’s the timeline?”
“Walsh wants a yes by the end of the day.” Sandra hesitated. “Silas is trying to slow him down.”
That helped.
Marginally.
Silas was trying to slow something down, which meant the brakes existed, even if they were already smoking.
“And Evan?”
Sandra was quiet for half a beat too long.
“He hasn’t seen it yet.”
That was worse.
Not the campaign logic or the legal language. Just the simple fact that he had let me see him, and now that seeing had become convertible.
Case flickered at the edges of it. Not literally, but in the way private truth could flatten fast once other hands got on it.
I stepped back from the tablet.
“Ineed to fix it.”
Sandra’s expression changed then. Not dramatically. Just enough for me to see the person under the job title.
“I know,” she said. “That’s why I came to you before I went back upstairs.”
I looked at her.
“You did?”
She folded her arms. “Sam. I work in communications, not necromancy. I know a haunted image when I see one.”
