I had to check my email, to see if the gallery interviews were still on.

The wind whipped my wool coat around my legs as I hurried down the street.

When I reached the lobby of my apartment building, the doorman, an older man named Frank who usually smiled, looked away.

“Excuse me, Ms. Ava,” he said, stopping me near the elevators.

“Yes, Frank?”

He held out a plain white envelope.

“A courier brought this for you ten minutes ago,” he said, his voice low and uneasy.

I took the envelope.

It did not have a return address, only my name printed in sharp, block letters on the front.

I tore it open right there in the lobby, the paper ripping unevenly under my fingernails.

Inside was a single sheet of paper with a corporate logo I recognized instantly.

It was the letterhead of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, where my final interview was scheduled for tomorrow morning.

My eyes scanned the short paragraph.

The words seemed to blur together on the heavy cream paper.

“We regret to inform you that the curatorial position has been filled.”