You are a business person. You work as a manager for published authors, doing whatever work that entails. You know. You wear clean and professional attire, keep yourself expertly groomed, and demonstrate a sense of confidence and integrity everywhere you go. You are a model citizen in the book-business world.

Jack is a drifter. He’s a truck driver who writes books, and only just now has he gotten one published. He’s out-of-place here in Sydney. He’s carefree, untethered, loose. He isn’t socially ignorant or inept, but he sure does miss a few points when it comes to the game of selling yourself and your product.

You are Jack’s manager. Jack is your client. He is a small-town boy in a big city chasing his dreams. You are a soulless media sellout just riding out this job and its paycheck until you die.

Or, until something better comes along. And you think it just might have.

Jack keeps sticking his finger underneath the chocolate fountain in the dining hall of the reception building. This is supposed to be a formal occasion, where media sharks and people from the press mingle in one room together. It’s like the city version of dogfights; you’re just releasing one feral animal into the vicinity of another to see what happens.

Your boss, a large old man with a heart made of stone if there even is one at all, enters the room. You can tell by his sweeping gaze that he is looking for you. Or, at the very least, for someone to torture. Realizing this means he’ll want to meet your new client (and that your promotion, or lack thereof, depends on the worthiness of such), you race to the buffet table and smack Jack’s hand away.

“Hey!” He exclaims, holding back laughter as he licks the chocolate off of his finger. “I need to find a cup to put this stuff in, really. It’s like liquid gold. But it’s liquid chocolate!”

Oh my god, you think. I’m doomed.