2. McCarthy
MCCARTHY
J enna’s crying at her desk. She thinks I can’t see her from my office, but I can—in the mirror mounted on my wall. She’s sobbing over a little plastic container of sushi, dissecting it, picking out the stale fish, the mushy avocado, and the sour cream cheese as she sits there, pretending to work.
I feed him some ham. Then I feed Buddy some ham but not a lot, because he’s a senior dog. Also, he’s not used to all that rich food, unlike Truman, and yes, I know Jenna is feeding him fast food behind my back because he puked up half a Wendy’s wrapper in my closet this morning.
Jenna’s using her chopsticks to unfurl the seaweed from the sushi roll.
I send a chat to one of my assistants.
McCarthy: Get me an order from the Maki spot.
My phone rings while I watch Jenna. She’s in the office because she’s supposed to be doing PR work to sell the public on a new factory. But all she’s doing is crying, texting on her phone, and eating that nasty grocery-store sushi.
I hit the green button for the incoming video call on my phone. Hawthorne’s face appears on the screen.
“ What? ” I snap.
“Hello, McCarthy. How are you? How’s your day?” he says in a mocking voice.