My sister blasted “INFERTILE, DIVORCED, FAILURE” across a 10-foot screen at her wedding while 200 guests laughed—my mother sipped wine, my father called it “just a joke.”

“No. I’m not him. I don’t turn information into ammunition.”

“Then what’s the trigger?”

I show him. A text message pre-typed on my phone. One word: begin.

“When I send it, Marcus switches the USB on the projector from Paige’s slideshow to mine. He’s already tested the system during setup at the venue. The swap takes three seconds.”

“And if their slideshow turns out to be harmless?” he asks.

“Then I never send it. We leave. I visit Ruth. We drive back to Richmond.”

Marcus looks at me for a long time.

“You know they won’t keep it harmless.”

“I know. But I need to give them the chance. One last chance to be decent. Because when this is over, I want to be sure, completely sure, that I didn’t fire first.”

Five days before the wedding, Harold calls.

He doesn’t say hello. He says,

“Rules. You sit at table 14, back corner. You don’t speak to the Whitmores unless spoken to. You don’t mention your divorce, your condition, or anything about your personal life. If anyone asks what you do, you say you work reception at a small firm. Clear?”

“And after the wedding, I can see Grandma Ruth?”

“We’ll see. Depends on your behavior.”

The line goes dead.