The Collection Specialist at LifeCorp has no softness to her. Everything about her is a razor’s edge—her sleek black ponytail, needlepoint stilettos, bony elbows, and long fingers. She smiles without any real kindness as she sits across from the woman in the ratty sweater and dirty sneakers.
“Can I have your full name, ma’am?” The specialist’s fingers sweep across the thin white keyboard in front of her.
“Martha Johnson.”
“Thank you.” The woman’s blue eyes drop to peer through the glass table, watching Martha’s left leg bounce. “Now, Ms. Johnson, before we approve you for the procedure, I need to ask you a few questions. Is that alright with you?”
Martha’s brow lifts slightly. Then she nods, brown eyes flicking from side to side as she takes in the room again. Gleaming white walls, a floor so polished she can see her reflection. It’s all perfect, sterile, unfeeling.
The specialist smiles again, revealing prominent incisors. “Fantastic. What’s your occupation?”
“I’m a waitress. Over at The Golden Biscuit.”
The keys make tiny clicks as the woman types, the only sound in the windowless room. “What’s your estimated annual salary? Tips included.”
“I reckon that’s my fucking business.”
The specialist stops moving. She looks back to Martha. Her eyes never seem to blink. “Of course, you’re welcome to keep it confidential, Ms. Johnson, but we can’t proceed without that information.”
Martha clenches and unclenches her jaw before she speaks. “About $25,000.”
“Thank you, Ms. Jo—”
“Jesus, quit doing that. Just call me Martha.”
The specialist finally blinks before smiling. It’s a patronizing smile like she’s speaking to an insolent child. “Of course, Martha. My apologies. So, $25,000 a year. Do you drink or smoke?”
“All of the above.” “How frequently?” “A pack a day and a
