"You’re leaving me tomorrow
night
no need to worry, no need to fight
one fell through the floor
the other wakes up wanting more
oh

You will leave this table set and done
you will leave me thinking every song’s been sung
but this is the song I could not write you
this is the song for your sad and silent spring
so the hot nights make you dream good
do the cold nights mean you’re understood?"

— "Happens (Rebecca’s Song)," by Shane McCutcheon, from her 2002 album Contrary/Wise

Tim found her sitting in the security office, tiny white hands clutched together on a padded notebook, a yellow, lined legal notepad laid atop it along with a microcasette recorder. Her knee was jouncing up and down, causing the binding on the cassette recorder to clack against the plastic casing, a tiny click-click-click sound filling the cramped room.

"Miss Schecter?" He asked as he stepped into the office, plastering on that shit-eating, mom-charming boyish grin that won over so many hard-nosed journos and cynical critics. He stuck out his hand as he approached and her smile was broad and bright.

"Yes! Are you Tim?" She asked, her knee finally stopping its bouncing so that she could stand, catching hold of his hand and shaking enthusiastically as she stood. "I mean — I’m sorry, should I call you Mr. Haspell? Which would you be more comfortable with?" Biting her lip, she favored him with a sheepish look.

"Oh, no, Tim’s fine," he said as he released her hand, waving off the formality. "And, your name…?"

"Jenny," she replied, bending her knees a little bit as she clutched her notebook and recorder and folder to her chest, bouncing a bit as she smiled. It was a nice smile, but he could see she was as green as the grass just by talking to her even this long.

"Jenny. Great, great," Tim said, nodding as he clapped his hands together, rubbing them. "So, it looks like you’ve got everything. If you wanna follow me, I can take you to her." He started for the door and she scurried to grab a large black bag, slinging the straps over her shoulder, short legs rushing to catch up with him. He glanced back at her, brows furrowing. "Is your photographer with you?"