“What error?”
“The municipal gas account.”
Silence. A much longer, heavier silence.
“What about the gas account?” Mom asked, her voice trembling.
“It is currently registered in my name.”
Mom didn’t formulate a response. Brooke did. I heard the scuffle of the phone changing hands again.
“What are you talking about?” Brooke demanded. I could hear Mom whimpering something unintelligible in the background. Then Brooke’s voice sharpened. “Why on earth is Mom’s heating gas tied to your identity?”
“Because thirty-six months ago, her credit profile was obliterated after she co-signed a predatory loan so you could charge people to eat sandwiches on damp grass.”
“Luxury Picnic Consulting possessed massive market potential!” Brooke shrieked defensively. “It was an avant-garde approach to experiential hospitality! We offered premium lumbar support cushions!”
Mom snatched the phone back, her voice desperate. “Rupert, listen to me. Are you explicitly threatening to call the city and shut off my gas supply?”
