The lawyer arrives while they are still on your face.
He is young enough to be insultingly confident, wearing a gray suit too crisp for empathy and the expression of a man sent to deliver someone else’s cruelty with billable efficiency. He doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t sit. He drops a thick folder on the white linen in front of you as if serving notice to a debtor.
“Mr. Vargas,” he says, “I’ve been instructed to ensure you receive these tonight.”
The words are smooth.
Practiced.
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