“Richard Connor Cobalt.” I gave her an amiable smile. She procured the corresponding nametag. “Welcome to this year’s Model UN, Richard. Good luck.” Her last phrase – while nothing more than a meaningless farewell – punctured a part of my head, poking at a nerve. Good luck. I liked having control of my fate. And luck meant that I had none. That I’d have to let someone inferior decide my outcome.”
