“Well,” the interviewer started awkwardly, “I’m not quite sure how that would be relevant to the responsibilities of the job--”

“Yeah, cool, I’ll tell you anyway,” said Odila, looking off to another part of the building with a smile. “My mom, Marisol, was all but a triple shifter when I was a kid. ‘Cuz my Dad went on a little independent business expenditure not too long after my brother and I were born. He just never came back.”

“Oh,” muttered the interviewer. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Odila with a little wave. “I knew nothing about the man, and even if I did, I don’t blame him. Again, got kicked out of the house when I was seventeen.”

“I see…”

“My family was just a laugh and a half, right?” asked Odila, punctuating with a barking laugh. Cary could feel the pit of her stomach roil, a combination of acute empathy and aimless disgust.

“Something wrong Cary?” Iona’s voice whispered. Cary was suddenly, sharply pulled back to the present.

“No, it’s fine,” said Cary, shaking the remaining thoughts from her head. “You know...bad memories.”

“Oh…” Iona said blinking quickly. “I’m sorry.”

“Really, it’s okay,” said Cary. “Still, I think there are more mature ways to prove you’ve had a tough life than laugh at a dead person on live television.” Next to her, she could hear Lori give a soft giggle, trying to quiet the fact she agreed.

“Anyway,” Odila said, leaning back a little, “if our lives weren’t already enough of a black comedy, somewhere between breaking her back working to keep food on the table and keeping us from getting ourselves killed, my Mom...well, broke her back!”

“I can imagine that must have been difficult.”

“When you got two kids in school and no insurance? You bet,” said Odila. “But if my Mom got paralyzed, no work and no food. So she found a doctor who could give her a quick fix to keep her on her feet: a nice, non-addictive oxycodone regimen.”

“Shit,” Cary hissed under her breath.

“So it’s bad around here too?” asked Lori.

“Are you kidding?” said Cary. “Is there anywhere it isn’t?...goddammit.”

“Opioid rehab is really expensive,” Iona murmured. “Odila was already managing debts when she was with Strawberry Cherry. It’s one of the reasons why I’m worried she’d…”

“God dammit,” Cary echoed.

“So you know, it’s rough when a doctor’s office turns your mom into a junkie,” said Odila. “I was was busy being a stupid little pain and making all hell worse, so my older brother, Andre, was left to pick up the slack. He was a good man, thought he’d be fine. Five years after I leave home, he dies of an OD.” She emphasized the last revelation with a quick slide of two fingers off her throat, never breaking eye contact with the man in front of her or the camera behind him.

“I...” the interviewer said. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for? I dragged down the mood,” Odila shrugged. “Bad, bad Odila. I should have just listened to you and kept my trap shut, eh?”

“God,” Cary said, running her palm up her brow.

“So,” Odila said, clapping her palms together and pointing her hands at the man across from her. “That’s all there is to it. The only reason I’m interviewing for this job is because I don’t want to be sitting next to my brother in an early grave. Good a reason as any, right?”

“I don’t understand,” said the interviewer, squirming slightly at a deeper discomfort “are you a--I mean, are you currently--”

“HA. Cute,” laughed Odila. “No no, Mister Congeniality, I’m not shooting up. I’ve committed every other sin under the sun, but no. But I’m just getting a jump on things.”

She paused for a moment, looking almost pensive. The silence was just becoming noticeable when a grin blossomed on her face. A toothy, sinister smile, framing a dark glitter of an undying anger.

“People like me are going to get screwed over. One way or another,” said Odila. “It’s the way the world works. And if I don’t start chumming up with you now--get a good job, wear good clothes, eat my vegetables, try my best to pass for a nice little white kid instead of the godforsaken trash I am--I’m done. I’ll get kicked aside just like my Mom and brother.”

No, Cary thought, it’s not that easy. This won’t solve anything, and you know it. Don’t say this. Don’t give everyone this out to give up, that there’s nothing.. God, God I hate sugarcoating as much as anyone, but this is just…

“Cary?” Iona whispered. Cary stopped. She felt her nails digging into her palms.

“And really, I owe them,” said Odila. “My mom, and my brother. They played by the rules, and look what happened to them? Out of respect, I’ve gotta pay my dues, yeah? Slop in the mud just like them.”

“With all due respects,” said the interviewer. “I wouldn’t call working for our company ‘slopping in the mud’.”

“Well! Then you’ve sold me, my good man!” said Odila with a cackle. “Anyway, I think I’ve answered your question all well and good. Fire away with the next one.”

Cary wasn’t quite sure what it was that revolted her, even angered her. Of course, there was righteous indignation. The same she felt for her clients. The same she felt toward herself when she had to say the things she knew were painful to hear, admittance that the road ahead carried no promises, just more burdens. But there was something else. A frustration that borderlined fear. A revulsion at the last word being so hopeless. Lying to a person in need, Cary thought, was the worst thing you could do. It was something she could not, would not, ever accept.

But for a moment, Cary could see why there was a temptation to tell a kinder story. Maybe it wasn’t just to spare the one who had to tell the truth. But what Odila was proposing, and the life she was daring to live, seemed far, far uglier.

“You don’t like this either, do you?” said Iona, resting her palm on Cary’s shoulder. Cary turned to meet her, unprepared for the look in her eyes. As always, they were bright, tied together with a smile, but they had a newfound camaraderie that Cary didn’t know she had.

It was not, Cary would protest, the kind of camaraderie that would be enough to give her the confidence to be whisked on stage. It was still not the encouragement that would keep her voice even, and her tone solid, as she sat down in the chair across from Odila, who looked equal parts furious and amused. Perhaps Dream Come True was suffused with a charisma that would always find a way to drag Cary, reluctant and scornful, into the epicenter of their chaos. Maybe they were each others own worst enemy.

Or maybe it was as simple as the answer Cary gave to Iona: “Yeah. I don’t like it at all.”