He smiles at me, crinkles the corners of his eyes. You see how I care for you, how generous I am with you?

– But you must do better. You must get back the taste for this work.

His hand drops from my face.

– Soon.

He walks to the bed, sits.

– You understand this?

– Yes.

– That is why I ask to talk to you. So you understand this. I am being unreasonable?

– No.

– Good. That is good. Then.

He settles back into his nest of pillows, crosses his legs at the ankles and picks up the remote.

– The flight was long and I will take a nap now.

– Sure.

I get up and stand there looking for a place to put my nearly full bottle of juice.

– Take it with you. For your blood sugar.

He smiles. I nod and walk toward the door. I have it open when his voice floats up the hall.

– There will be more work for you this week. You are free?

I stand there with the doorknob in my hand.

– Yeah.

– Of course you are. Go home and rest. You are tired.

I nod back down the hall toward the room, where all I can see of him are his stocking feet.

– Yeah. Thanks.

I step out into the hotel corridor, and before the door is closed I hear the sound of the TV click back on, chattering about the artificial beach behind the hotel. I walk to the elevators and push the button and stand there wondering how long I have left before David Dolokhov sends Branko to kill me, and whether he’ll send him to kill my parents before or after I am dead.

MY APARTMENT IS shit. But that kind of goes with the territory. The territory being my shitty life.

I shouldn’t be doing this. But I can’t help myself. I type in the address and wait while my shitty dial-up connects and loads the home page for www.sandycandy.com.