Who the hell does he think he is? Coming over here and telling me what to do with your things. What difference does it make if your jacket is still hanging in the hallway? I feel the urge to get up, to hit the table and tell him I’ll do whatever the hell I want. That I’m the captain of this ship. But I don’t, because I’m not a captain. I’m a bundle that’s been lashed to the mast in a storm.
