In the end, Sammy had to go to arbitration. It was in the afternoon, on the 12th floor of some office building, in an anonymous meeting room with a artificial plant in one corner, bathed in the blue haze of office lighting. He sat, drawing triangles on the back of the settlement form, listening to his lawyer talking to their lawyer. He felt like he was on TV. He had become convinced that anything bad that was going to happen, would happen to him. And he was right.
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