Some evenings, walking out of the Martell Foods building into the parking lot, I think about that morning Madison arrived expecting
ADVERTISto find me apologizing at my old desk, and instead found nothing but a signed letter waiting in my place. I do not think about it with satisfaction exactly. It is quieter than that. I think about it the way you think about a door you finally, correctly, closed. I do not carry guilt for what happened to my father’s company, or to Madison, or even to
