One week down.
The routine had started to crystallize.
Wake at 4:30.
Drive to Manhattan.
School.
Drive whoever needed driving.
Tutor Cassidy (when she bothered to show up).
Drive home.
Sleep.
Repeat.
My body was adjusting. My bank account was adjusting faster—the first direct deposit had hit on Friday, and for the first time in years, I hadn't immediately calculated which bills it needed to cover.
Today's assignment: chauffeur duty for Vivienne.
The Lexus sat in the east parking lot at Hartwell Academy. Engine idling. Air conditioning on because September in Manhattan couldn't decide if it wanted to be summer or fall. My eyes tracked the east entrance doors through the windshield.
2:43 PM.
Two minutes.
I'd gotten out of classes at 2:30 because Vivienne's email had contained exactly seventeen bullet points about punctuality. Each one more threatening than the last. The final bullet point simply read: "Tardiness will not be tolerated. I trust this is understood."
