I’m a mess. Protect polluters? Do I really? I don’t think so. I just put the best face possible on the facts as they existed. That’s my job, and I’m good at my job. That’s why Sarah gave me the Bayou Oil account. My cloudy mind was working overtime trying to pierce the haze of alcohol and reassure myself that my life and my work were meaningful. Mercifully, I arrived at work and didn’t have to listen to my guilty thoughts anymore.

I brought the beignets in the kitchen, and Sarah greeted me cordially. “There you are.” She didn’t seem pissed that I was late. In fact, she had a glowing smile on her face.

“There is someone here to see you,” she said. She hooked her arm in my elbow and escorted me into Mr. Jenkins’ office. The old coot sat behind his desk with a Cheshire cat grin on his face wider than the Mississippi River herself. Square in the middle of his desk was the morning paper. I concluded from his grin that he liked what he read. I never was able to predict how he would react to anything. Sometimes he would get thoroughly pissed off at something and throw a two–year-old’s temper tantrum only to later in the same day agree with whatever it was that pissed him off earlier. I could never really relax around him.

“Well, good morning, Alexandra!” he shouted. His exuberance alarmed me. His decibel level rattled my now aching head. “Have a seat, young lady.”

“Good morning, Mr. Jenkins,” I said, seating myself in one of the chairs in front of his desk. Sarah sat on the couch to my right. That’s odd, I thought. I felt naked and exposed sitting in isolation, like a mothballed ship that the navy had decided to use for target practice.

“Is this the bright, shining star of the PR world?” a voice from behind me asked. I turned and saw Dan Broussard himself walking in the room toward me. He sat in the chair beside me, never taking his eyes off me. I almost peed myself again.

“That’s our girl,” Jenkins said.