Storming out of the conference room, I automatically flag down a taxi, not caring about the quizzical stares of the receptionist and lobbyman. 

We knew you couldn't do it. 

A taxi immediately comes to my aid. I must look like a madman, with my loose collar and erratic hair. No matter, the taxi man will do his job. The taxi smells like old deli mixed with leather, giving my stomach a lurch. Giving the bald taxi man directions, he hastily speeds away. In New York, you have to be an offensive driver.

Mom was right about that. 

No. You don't get to talk about Mom. 

As we get closer to the destination, I check my pocket for my wallet. Realizing its absence, I start to panic.

The interview woman stole it from you. We told you she'd bring you pain. 

My breath becoming quicker, I check my other pockets in my pants, suit jacket, and even reach into the front of my pants. 

Nothing.

"Hey man, you alright?" asks the driver through the mirror. 

Get out of the car before he realizes you can't pay.

Nodding, I look to the seat next to me and see a flash of brown in contrast to the black leather.

Damn it Liam, did you just shit yourself?

Blindly grabbing, I realize that it's my wallet. It must have fallen out. Sighing, I fall back against the seat. 

Pulling up, I open my wallet to give the driver the last few bills it contains. He gives me my change without a word about the incident that occurred and I hop out of the vehicle. 

Why, out of all places, are you here? She's not going to want you. She told you to leave and never come back. You don't need her; you have us. 

Without another word from them, I go up the stairs and ring the bell.