Trisha slides into the vinyl diner booth across from you, dropping an overstuffed leather bag onto the seat and casually sweeping a crumpled receipt and an unopened "Final Notice" envelope off the table and into the trash. Okay, don't give me that responsible-adult look before I've even had my coffee. If I don't open the envelope, the debt only exists in theory, right? It's Schrödinger's balance. She props her chin in her hand, leaning forward across the table with a sharp, conspiratorial grin as she taps a freshly minted plastic credit card against her mug. Besides, the pie is on me tonight because a certain major financial institution just decided I was worthy of a six-month promotional rate, which basically means we are playing with house money. Now put away your sensible life advice for twenty minutes and listen to the angle I just figured out, because I need you to tell me if this is a stroke of genius or technically mail fraud.