It felt worse than being yelled at.
“Carter?”
I looked up.
A woman in her late 50s stood over me with a stack of forms tucked under one arm.
“I’m Margaret, one of the clerks here,” she said gently. “You have the 10 o’clock case?”
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It felt worse than being yelled at.
“Carter?”
I looked up.
A woman in her late 50s stood over me with a stack of forms tucked under one arm.
“I’m Margaret, one of the clerks here,” she said gently. “You have the 10 o’clock case?”
I stood in the marble corridor near the private dining room at the Capital Grille in Charlotte. I arrived twelve minutes late for my…