“What charity?” “Does it matter?” “Of course. Is it for a right-wing think tank? The next Woody Allen movie? A made-up disease, like hysteria or gluten sensitivity?” “Gluten sensitivity is not made-up.” “Really?” “Yes. And the tournament is for—” She taps furiously on her phone. “I can’t find it, but can we cut this short? We both know you’re going to say yes.” I scowl. “We know no such thing.” “Maybe you don’t.” “I have a spine, Easton.” “Sure.” She chews on her tapioca balls, aggressive, daring, suddenly more grizzly bear than guinea pig.
