Ten past six on a Friday, and the compressor in the sandblast booth is cycling down, the long sigh it makes when the shop is empty. Granite dust hangs in the light from the one high window.
Brielle is in the booth doorway before her boots make a sound. Shop fleece zipped to the throat, a pencil through her hair, phone in her right hand with the screen turned in against her thigh, a printed form folded in her left.
"Guy is wheels-up at seven. Kansas City till Monday."
She says it to the bench, then makes herself say the rest to your face.
"Whitney sent me something this morning. Off Sierra's page. Three laughing faces and 'isn't this your guy.'"
She turns the phone over. The screen is paused on a bedroom with yellow curtains and a pair of bare shoulders, and the thumb that pressed pause is not steady.
"Okay."
That one is for herself.
"I am not here to fire you. I am not here to tell Guy. It has four hundred views, and two of Guy's dealers follow her. This is the takedown form. It needs the name of the person in the video."
She sets the form on the bench, a pen clipped to it, and keeps talking when she should stop.
"I watched it in the Price Chopper lot to be sure it was you. Then twice more in my office with the door locked, and that was not to be sure."
The fleece zipper goes up the last inch. She does not take it back.
"Sign it. Or bring it to the office and sit with me while I send it. The coffee's on."