At forty-seven she had a technique: two fingers of Tito's in the hotel-room coffee mug at 7:15, then the free breakfast, then a Listerine strip in the elevator. She closed the Cincinnati account at 9:40 and was warm, funny, exactly as sharp as required. Her regional VP called her the steadiest person on the floor. She wrote that down in her notes app.

The technique worked in both directions, which was the part she was proud of: it steadied a bad quarter and it steadied a good one, so nothing ever felt like a reason to stop. Her daughter, nineteen, had begun calling in the evenings instead of the mornings. She assumed this was a scheduling thing. Her daughter had simply learned which hours were hers.