The workshop’s just as bad as I feared. There are maybe twenty of us in the room, sitting at tables set up in front of a podium as if this is high school all over again. Next to the podium is an open laptop and a projector, which broadcasts an image of a Windows desktop onto a screen behind the speaker. He’s tall and skinny, and reminds me of that dorky type of guy who always gets picked on in school. “I’m Kenny Focht,” he says with a laugh, “but please, call me Kenny.”
I choke on my complimentary cup of tepid coffee. Beside me, Scott snickers. Under my breath, I ask, “Did he just say his name is f**k?”
We’re close enough to the podium that Kenny overhears and shoots me a dirty look. When Scott’s foot nudges mine under the table, it takes all the strength I have to force the smile from
