*Isaac*

My office feels like it’s caving in on me as I tap my fingers on my desk and stare down at the profiles scattered across the wooden surface. The same desk I used to sit beneath as a child while my dad conducted pack business is now littered with pictures and essays written by women I don’t know.

And I don’t really care to know them either.

Dad is going to be livid when he finds out what I’m doing. Mom, too. Especially Mom, now that I think about it. They ...