What happened?” You ask her. “Well.” She starts, “I kind of decided that macroeconomics wasn’t my sort of thing. It’s all so, serious. Any...ay, I’m coming home Friday! Maybe I’ll see you at the airport?” You look at the calendar on your desktop and it reads Wednesday. “Oh! You bet! Just let me know what time you’ll be off the plane and I’ll be there with a big hug waiting.” You hear someone talking to Sami in the background. “Just a minute!” She yells at whoever is there. “I gotta go. Gotta get. Brita had walked up and down the street, on the other side of course, perhaps a half dozen times. But who was counting? She was, by turns, experiencing the chill and butterflies of nervousness, and the white heat of fury at being forced into this situation, and by turns her fury focused on someone to blame. Her mother whose illness forced her to become the family's bread winner? The stupid politicians, all men of course, who had caused the problem with their incompetent framing of laws, or. More

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