Alain continues to express (or feign?) ignorance in a mostly-German-partly-English mish-mash, and excuses himself quickly.  Dawn is still smiling at her own joke as she turns back to me.  I have no idea what sort of expression is on my face.  I somehow can’t believe that any one expression has managed to work its way onto my face at this moment.

      I cannot tell if this woman is taller or shorter than me because of how her back seems bent even though she is standing upright.  She seems to be taller than me, and yet still looking up at me.  And she keeps thanking me, but I can’t for the life of me get her to tell me what she’s thanking me for.

      “What for?” I ask as bluntly as I dare, still in “interview” mode.  “I haven’t done anything yet.”

      “Oh, I’m sure.  I’m sure.”  But what she’s sure of can’t be pried loose with a crowbar.

      And finally it hits me:  She’s groveling.  She’s cowering and groveling, and my presence has her relieved for some mysterious reason.  Maybe you think you would leave and never go back.  If you think so, back up a few pages and see the reference to the baby boy for whom I’d shoot down the sun to spare him sunburn.

      What have I gotten myself into?

      The answer, it turns out, is “My career.”