“Does Jeff Bezos want you to write a blog?” my mother calls from the living room.

“I deeply doubt it, Mom,” I call back.

“Well, he’ll be begging when he finds out what a beautiful writer you are.”

“Would you do me a huge favor?” I whisper to John. “Would you murder me?” I pour two mugs of decaf and bring them out to my parents. “I don’t really need or want Jeff Bezos to beg me to write a blog,” I say.

“He might even be one of the smartest people in America,” says my dad.