Britta uses a key to open an office door, flips on a light, and stands aside to let me pass. “Let’s fucking go, Sumner” comes a guttural shout from the dining room. “Lock her down, bro. Do it for the team. Do it for America.” Out of sight, I flip them my middle finger and follow Britta into the office, ducking just in time to keep my forehead from smacking off the doorjamb. “Sorry about that,” I mutter.
