Morning breaks, not to the sun but to the chatter of news vans on an upscale street not far from the heart of America’s government. I dress in the clothes Evelyn bought me yesterday. This is definitely the most put-together I’ve ever looked.
“Good morning,” she says. “Are you ready?”
“No,” I say with sincerity. I know the plan. I recognize my role. I’m dressed and made up for cameras. But am I ready?
“It’s not too late,” Evelyn says. We look toward the mirror but at each other. “If you want out, now is the time. Later will be too late. You’ll be ruined.”
“Ruined. That’s what we’re going for, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Yes, indeed.” She turns me toward her. “Remember, I read your book and found you online.”
“And then you contacted me because I had written about Sad Boy on social media.”
“So we met, and I decided to tell my family’s story.”
“But your extended family thinks I want to cash in on the story.”
“See? You are ready.”
“What if no one bites?”
“Then I suppose we’ve lost nothing.”
We enter the immaculate sitting room left of the front entry. Cameras line the open space. The furniture has been rearranged for the angle. I sit with Evelyn on a sofa. Our interviewer sits across from us. So begins my end.