I set my bag on the room’s floor. I’m never flying again. I should have driven here, but they wouldn’t let me. They put me up in this room, they paid for the flight and who knows what else. They printed my book. They own me. That’s how I feel. Those sewer-eyed bastards, with their suits, offices, shine and who knows what else. But here I am. I turn on the TV, find the news, the stock market report, and a story on them, how their stock rose, how people investing in their company made who knows how much. I’m in hell.