My Mother-in-Law Sat Me by the Service Door

who’d spent the last four months begging for MRI money from hedge fund managers.

He saw me as I slipped in and gave the smallest nod.

Marty was decent. Frazzled, but decent. Fifty-something, rumpled tuxedo, Ohio vowels he never lost. We’d met in February in a conference room with stale blueberry muffins and a leaky projector. He spoke for forty minutes continue reading …