I do a slow turn and force myself to be nice. “Sure is, Margot.” Even her name in my mouth tastes like week-old milk. “It sure is!” she repeats back, as if she didn’t hear me at all. “Poppy Hart. You look—” she gives me a familiar once-over, as if searching her Rudeness Rolodex for the perfect insult—“healthy.” Margot Richards, everyone.
