Preston Hollifield wanted to go home. His hand ached from signing autographs.

If he passed this inspection, if he swore up and down again that he wouldn't tell a single soul what had transpired in this godforsaken hellhole, maybe she'd take pity.

Like she'd taken pity on everyone else, he thought bitterly, looking around at the other exhausted celebrities slumped over piles of their own merchandise. Poor Usher—the rapper, not the cape—had resorted to using his teeth to grip his marker-pen because the fingers on both his hands were now permanently cramped into claws.

Preston crushed his eyes shut. When he won a personal session with the judges on Country Idol, they'd given him advice on improving as an artist, handling rivals, interacting with fans.

They'd never warned him about this.

"You've misspelt his name," the inspector noted, drawing him back to the present. She was a looker, to be sure, but after all the threats it was hard to see her that way again.

Preston squinted at his wobbly scrawl on the glossy surface of the instrument.

Connor—

Keep on strumming!

—Preston Hollifield

"No, I… I don't think I did, ma'am."

"Compare what you wrote to the name on your sheet. ID 153."

Scratching his days-old stubble, he picked up the sheet. His weary eyes took a while to locate the name: Conor.

"Oh," he said. "Yeah, crap, sorry. I thought 'Connor' had two 'n's."

"Spare me the excuses." She thrust another ukulele into his chest. "Just get it right. A twelve-year-old with cystic fibrosis is waiting."

"Why are you doing this?" he asked.

The inspector cocked her head, a hawk bemused by the impotent squirming of its catch. "Because I care, Mr. Hollifield. Simple as that. Do you not? Did my mention of the preteen whose airways are being progressively invaded by bacteria not reach you? Does Southern hospitality only go so far?"

"No, no, of course not. I meant—"

"Let me put this in terms you'll understand. Life isn't a reality show. When you lose, your body pays the penalty. When you get eliminated, you don't get to go home."

"Are you talkin' about me or the sick kids?"

"That, Mr. Hollifield," she said, "is up to you."

The woman pivoted on her heel and started striding to the next booth.

"When can I see my fiancée again?" he cried after her.

She didn't turn. "Finish this batch and we can talk about you getting a phone call."