It’s Thursday, a mere twenty-four hours before the first rounds of golf begin, and Greg stands in the lobby of the Hermitage, waiting. He’s behind a long registration table—spread out before him are nametags on lanyards, free pens, and goody bags full of promotional tees and mini golf balls on key chains and other knick-knacks golfers will love. Greg knows; he spent most of the night before stuffing the last of the bags after the shipment of Ping-sponsored golf towels finally arrived. Now he stands with his arms folded behind his back, his gaze roaming over the table one last time, assessing it as if the items before him were an offering to please the gods.
His attention is drawn to the nametags, which look jostled. A few of them are just slightly out of line with the others. The smallest
