Chapter 1: The Business of Being Bothered

The first thing anybody noticed about Care-In LLC was the sign.

It hung crooked above a narrow glass door between a vape shop called Cloud Daddy and a tax office that was open only when the owner felt spiritually prepared to explain deductions. The sign was white, blue, and aggressively sincere.

CARE-IN LLC
WE TAKE OFFENSE SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO

Underneath that, in smaller letters:

REPRESENTATION FOR THE OVERLOOKED, MISUNDERSTOOD, AND MILDLY DISRESPECTED

And underneath that, because someone in marketing had panicked:

NO REFUNDS AFTER EMOTIONAL ESCALATION

By Tampa standards, it was not the strangest business on the block. That honor went to a smoothie stand across the street that claimed to sell “vitamin-infused prophecy.” But Care-In LLC was new, and new businesses in Tampa attracted three kinds of people: customers, critics, and one guy named Rick who believed every storefront should sell bait.

Inside, the office smelled like printer toner, Cuban coffee, damp carpet, and ambition sprayed with off-brand citrus cleaner.

Simone “Simmy” Usiku stood in the middle of the lobby with a clipboard pressed against her chest like a shield.

She was twenty-seven, sharp-eyed, sharply dressed, and too organized for a company whose lobby had four chairs, three of which were from different eras of failed waiting rooms. Her braids were pulled into a clean bun, her blazer was the color of midnight, and her shoes made a confident click even when she was standing still.

On the clipboard was today’s intake schedule.

It read:

9:00 a.m. — New Employee Orientation
9:15 a.m. — Team Vision Alignment
9:30 a.m. — Incident Review: Inflatable Flamingo
10:00 a.m. — First Official Client Appointment
10:30 a.m. — Possible Lawsuit From Cloud Daddy
11:00 a.m. — Lunch?
11:05 a.m. — Probably Not Lunch

Simmy stared at the final line and exhaled through her nose.

“We are a professional firm,” she said aloud, even though no one had asked.

From the back room, a man shouted, “Is professional firm the one where the copier doesn’t make smoke?”

“That’s one component, yes,” Simmy called back.

The man appeared a moment later carrying a fire extinguisher, a stack of manila folders, and half a bagel balanced in his mouth.

His name was Mateo “Teo” Buho, and he had the natural posture of a person who expected applause for entering rooms. He wore a patterned short-sleeve button-up covered in tiny owls, white sneakers, and sunglasses indoors, not because he was trying to be cool, but because he had once heard someone say mystery increased perceived value.

Teo removed the bagel from his mouth.

“Good news,” he said.

Simmy closed her eyes. “Define good.”

“The copier is not on fire.”

“And the bad news?”

“It has feelings.”

“It does not.”

“It screamed my name.”

“It jammed.”

“It jammed with intention.”

Simmy took the folders from him before he dropped them. “Did you finish printing the welcome packets?”

Teo looked proud. “Yes.”

“Where are they?”

He glanced toward the back room.

A loud metallic coughing sound came from behind the door.

Teo’s pride dimmed. “Somewhere between paper and ash.”

Before Simmy could respond, the office door opened with a cheerful electronic chime that made every entrance sound like a yogurt shop transaction.

Ned Cruz stepped inside, soaking wet from a rainstorm that had appeared over Tampa with no warning, as if the sky had remembered a grudge. He was carrying an umbrella, but the umbrella was closed.

Simmy looked at him. “Why aren’t you using that?”

Ned looked down at the umbrella in his hand, surprised to find it there. “I thought it was decorative.”

“You thought the umbrella was decorative?”

“It had ducks on it.”

“It still blocks rain.”

“Most things with ducks don’t.”

Teo nodded seriously. “He has a point.”

Ned Cruz was Care-In LLC’s newest hire, though no one was entirely sure what his job title was. His résumé had included “communications,” “brand mediation,” “conflict sensitivity,” and “assistant youth bowling league treasurer.” Simmy had hired him because he had shown up to the interview with three apology drafts for things he had not done.

That kind of instinct could not be taught.

Ned stood in the lobby, dripping onto the carpet.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “A rooster blocked traffic.”

“In Tampa?” Simmy asked.

“In Ybor-adjacent Tampa,” Ned said, as though that explained everything.

It did.

Teo handed him a paper towel.

Ned accepted it and dabbed one sleeve. “So this is the place.”

“This,” Simmy said, straightening her blazer, “is Care-In LLC. A full-service emotional representation firm specializing in proxy offense, grievance interpretation, apology acquisition, public statement drafting, ceremonial outrage, and post-incident dignity restoration.”

Ned blinked.

Teo leaned toward him. “We get mad for people who are too busy, too tired, too dead, too fictional, or too legally ambiguous to get mad for themselves.”

“That is not how I would phrase it,” Simmy said.

“But it fits on a mug,” Teo said.

Ned looked around the lobby.

There was a framed mission statement on the wall.

OUR MISSION:
To care when others refuse to.
To listen when others dismiss.
To represent the offended, the nearly offended, and the pre-offended.
To transform disrespect into billable action.

Beneath the frame sat a small ficus tree wearing a name tag.

The name tag read:

MARTIN — OFFICE PLANT / SILENT PARTNER

Ned pointed at it. “Is the plant really a partner?”

“Martin was here before the lease,” Simmy said.

Teo lowered his voice. “And he knows things.”

The back office door opened again, and a woman in a yellow pantsuit stepped out holding a tablet and a cold coffee like both had disappointed her.

This was Gwen Pritchard, founder and managing director of Care-In LLC.

Gwen had the energy of a motivational speaker who had slept in her car but still owned the room. Her hair was silver-blonde, her earrings looked expensive from across the lobby, and her smile could turn a bounced check into a networking opportunity.

She clapped once.

“Team,” she said. “Gather. Today is historic.”

Teo stood taller.

Simmy checked the time.

Ned tried not to drip on anything with feelings.

Gwen walked to the center of the lobby and spread her arms wide.

“Care-In LLC opens its doors to the public today. We are not merely a company. We are a civic instrument. A human megaphone. A velvet hammer of social restoration.”

Teo whispered to Ned, “She practiced this in the bathroom.”

“I heard that,” Gwen said.

Teo smiled. “And it worked.”

Gwen continued. “For too long, offense has been unmanaged. Reactive. Unstructured. People are out here becoming upset without representation, documentation, strategy, or a five-to-seven-business-day escalation pathway. That ends today.”

Simmy nodded despite herself. Gwen had a way of making nonsense sound like a municipal program.

“Our clients,” Gwen said, “will come to us hurt. Confused. Ignored. Slighted. Misnamed. Misquoted. Mis-seated at brunch.”

“Brunch is where America collapses,” Teo said.

“They will bring us their pain,” Gwen said. “And we will convert that pain into formal language.”

Ned raised a hand.

Gwen pointed at him. “Question from our newest advocate.”

“Are we lawyers?”

“No.”

“Therapists?”

“No.”

“Publicists?”

“Depends on the package.”

“Clergy?”

“Only for premium reconciliation ceremonies.”

Ned lowered his hand slowly. “So what are we legally?”

There was a pause.

Gwen smiled.

“Concerned.”

Simmy wrote something on her clipboard.

Teo whispered, “Powerful.”

Gwen turned toward a whiteboard behind the reception desk. On it was written:

CARE-IN SERVICE TIERS

1. Mildly Troubled — $49

2. Deeply Unsettled — $149

3. Publicly Wounded — $399

4. Legacy Harm Package — $799

5. Catastrophic Disrespect Event — Custom Quote

Ned stared at the board. “What’s a Catastrophic Disrespect Event?”

Gwen’s face darkened with professional seriousness.

“Destination wedding seating chart.”

Ned nodded. That made sense.

Simmy stepped forward. “Before the first client arrives, I need everyone to understand the intake protocol. We do not promise outcomes. We do not threaten violence. We do not use the word boycott unless the client signs the Mobilized Disapproval Addendum. We do not represent minors without guardian permission, unless the minor is a goose, because Tampa County has not given clear guidance on geese.”

Teo raised a finger. “Question.”

“No geese today,” Simmy said.

“Not my question.”

“Fine.”

“If an offended party is an object—”

“Define object.”

“Hypothetically, an inflatable flamingo.”

Simmy looked at him.

Teo looked away.

Simmy tapped her clipboard. “The inflatable flamingo incident is at 9:30.”

“Right,” Teo said. “So we wait.”

Gwen checked her tablet. “The first official client is at ten, but we may have a walk-in earlier. Tampa rewards readiness.”

As if summoned by civic chaos, the front door chime rang.

Everyone turned.

A man in a linen shirt entered, holding a large plastic storage container with air holes punched in the lid. He was sweating heavily, but in Florida that did not narrow anything down.

Behind him stood a teenage girl filming on her phone.

The man cleared his throat.

“I need representation.”

Simmy’s professional face activated instantly. “Welcome to Care-In LLC. I’m Simone Usiku, operations lead. This is Gwen Pritchard, our managing director. Mateo Buho and Ned Cruz are advocacy associates.”

Teo adjusted his sunglasses. “Emotional enforcement division.”

“No,” Simmy said.

Ned gave a small wave.

Gwen stepped forward. “And you are?”

“Dale Kurtz,” the man said. “But I’m not the client.”

He lifted the container.

Inside sat a turtle wearing a tiny foam visor.

The turtle stared at them with the ancient disappointment of a creature that had seen empires rise, fall, and get replaced by condo developments.

Teo gasped. “That turtle has a case.”

Simmy glanced at the container. “And the turtle’s name?”

“Mr. Chompsky,” Dale said.

Ned whispered, “That’s strong.”

The teenage girl kept recording.

Gwen clasped her hands. “Mr. Kurtz, what brings Mr. Chompsky to Care-In LLC?”

Dale set the container carefully on the reception desk.

“My homeowners association has issued a written complaint alleging that Mr. Chompsky’s outdoor habitat is quote, ‘a swamp-adjacent visual nuisance.’”

Simmy stiffened.

Teo removed his sunglasses.

Ned inhaled sharply.

Gwen’s smile sharpened.

“Swamp-adjacent,” she repeated.

Dale nodded.

The turtle did not blink.

The teenage girl whispered into her phone, “This is about to be so valid.”

Simmy opened a fresh intake form. “Was the phrase directed at Mr. Chompsky personally, his habitat, his species, or the aesthetic category of swamp-adjacentness?”

Dale looked uncertain. “All of the above?”

Teo slapped the desk. “Layered disrespect.”

“Do not slap the desk near the client,” Simmy said.

Teo leaned toward the turtle. “My apologies, Mr. Chompsky.”

The turtle remained spiritually unavailable.

Gwen walked slowly around the desk, studying the container.

“Mr. Kurtz,” she said, “has your HOA previously shown bias against reptile-forward landscaping?”

“They made me remove the sunning log.”

Ned’s hand flew to his chest.

“The sunning log?” Simmy asked.

Dale nodded. “They said it looked like driftwood with intent.”

Teo paced in a small circle. “Driftwood with intent? That is poetry written by cowards.”

Simmy pointed her pen at him. “Teo.”

“What? I’m caring.”

“You’re escalating.”

“That’s caring with shoes on.”

Gwen raised one hand, and the room settled.

“Mr. Kurtz,” she said, “Care-In LLC would be honored to review this matter. Our initial recommendation is a formal Statement of Reptilian Dignity, followed by a targeted HOA Concerns Clarification Letter.”

The teenage girl looked up. “Can it go viral?”

Gwen turned to her with the warmth of someone who had just heard a cash register sing.

“And you are?”

“Maddie. I’m Dale’s daughter. I run Mr. Chompsky’s page.”

Simmy looked up. “Mr. Chompsky has a page?”

Maddie lifted her phone.

On the screen was a social media account with the handle @ChompskySpeaks.

It had twelve thousand followers.

Teo whispered, “He’s an influencer.”

Ned whispered back, “He’s bigger than us.”

Gwen’s smile widened by one millimeter, which in business terms meant a yacht had appeared somewhere in her imagination.

“Mr. Kurtz,” she said, “given Mr. Chompsky’s public profile, we may need to consider the Publicly Wounded package.”

Dale frowned. “Is that expensive?”

Simmy slid a brochure across the desk.

Dale read it and winced. “This turtle was free.”

Maddie gasped. “Dad.”

Dale looked ashamed. “Emotionally he is priceless.”

Mr. Chompsky shifted one foot.

“That’s consent,” Teo said.

“No, it is not,” Simmy said.

The office phone rang.

Everyone froze.

The phone had not rung before. During setup, Teo had called it from his cell eleven times to “test the emotional readiness of the bell,” but this was different. This was a real call. A public call. The kind of call a business received before either making money or being reported.

Simmy reached for the receiver.

“Care-In LLC,” she said smoothly. “We regret to inform you that we care.”

Gwen gave her a thumbs up.

Simmy listened.

Her expression changed.

“Yes,” she said. “We do represent nontraditional complainants. Yes. Depending on the package. May I ask who or what is seeking representation?”

A pause.

Teo leaned forward.

Ned held his breath.

Dale clutched the turtle container.

Maddie kept filming.

Simmy’s eyebrows drew together.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Did you say the offended party is… a mural?”

Teo mouthed, A mural.

Gwen whispered, “Put them on hold.”

Simmy pressed the hold button.

The office filled with tinny hold music that sounded like a keyboard falling down stairs.

Gwen turned to the room.

“A mural is offended.”

Teo put both hands on his head. “This city needs us.”

Ned looked at the turtle. “Can a mural retain representation?”

Simmy flipped through the company binder. “We anticipated statues, memorial benches, mascots, small businesses, food trucks, at least one ghost, and possibly a parking meter. I don’t see murals.”

Gwen’s eyes gleamed. “Then we make policy.”

Dale raised a hand. “Do I still have my appointment?”

“Mr. Chompsky remains a priority,” Gwen said. “However, Tampa has presented us with concurrent dignity events.”

The back office door banged open.

A man in a maintenance uniform leaned in from the hallway. He was short, square, bald, and carrying a plunger like a royal staff.

“Who parked in my spot?” he demanded.

Simmy pinched the bridge of her nose. “Mr. Alvarez, good morning.”

“I asked a question.”

“No one parked in your spot.”

“There’s a scooter there.”

Teo raised a hand slowly.

Mr. Alvarez stared at him. “You.”

Teo smiled. “It’s an advocacy scooter.”

“It’s touching my cone.”

“Your cone was lonely.”

“My cone is municipal.”

“You’re a private building manager.”

“My cone has authority.”

Ned whispered, “Is the cone offended?”

Everyone turned to him.

Ned realized too late that he had said it aloud.

Gwen pointed at him. “That is exactly the kind of thinking we need.”

Mr. Alvarez narrowed his eyes. “Nobody is representing my cone.”

Teo leaned toward Simmy. “But if the cone came to us independently—”

“No,” Simmy said.

The hold music continued its tiny disaster.

Mr. Chompsky stared.

Maddie filmed.

Dale sweated.

Mr. Alvarez gripped his plunger.

And in that moment, with a turtle on the desk, a mural on hold, a parking cone hovering near legal personhood, and a copier in the back room making sounds like a haunted accordion, Ned Cruz understood something important.

He had taken jobs before.

He had answered phones, filed invoices, stocked shelves, wiped counters, drafted newsletters no one read, and once spent nine days helping a man sell motivational socks at a trade show. In each job, people pretended the work made sense because money was involved.

But Care-In LLC was different.

Here, the work did not make sense because money was involved.

The money was merely standing nearby, confused.

This was something stranger.

This was a place where the tiny injuries of the world wandered in wearing foam visors and HOA letters. A place where bruised pride, misplaced anger, public embarrassment, and ridiculous moral urgency could sit in a lobby and receive a clipboard.

It was absurd.

It was probably doomed.

It might be genius.

Ned looked at the crooked sign through the glass door.

WE TAKE OFFENSE SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO

For the first time in months, he felt the faintest itch of purpose.

Then the copier screamed.

Not metaphorically.

It screamed.

A long, mechanical, high-pitched shriek came from the back room, followed by a pop, a clatter, and the smell of warm plastic surrender.

Teo pointed toward the sound. “See?”

Simmy marched toward the back. “Nobody move.”

The phone hold music stopped.

The caller had hung up.

Gwen’s face hardened. “We lost the mural.”

Teo put his sunglasses back on. “Then we avenge the mural.”

“We do not avenge clients,” Simmy shouted from the back room. “We document concerns.”

Mr. Alvarez stepped fully into the office. “If that copier sets off the sprinklers again, I’m evicting all of you.”

“Again?” Ned asked.

Gwen waved him off. “Soft opening.”

Dale cleared his throat. “So, about Mr. Chompsky…”

Maddie lowered her phone. “Actually, the live has comments.”

Everyone turned.

“You were live?” Simmy asked.

Maddie smiled awkwardly. “For awareness.”

Teo leaned in. “How many viewers?”

Maddie checked.

“Eight hundred.”

Gwen’s pupils became dollar signs in business casual form.

Maddie read from the screen. “Somebody named BayAreaTruthGoblin says, ‘Finally, a company brave enough to defend turtle excellence.’”

Teo put a fist in the air. “Truth Goblin sees us.”

“Another comment says, ‘What about emotional damages for garden gnomes?’”

Ned grabbed a notepad. “That’s a market.”

Simmy returned from the back office holding a smoking piece of paper with two fingers.

“The copier printed one page,” she said.

Gwen took it from her.

At the top of the page, in warped black ink, were the words:

FORMAL NOTICE OF CONCERN

Below that, the machine had printed a single sentence.

WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT WE CARE.

The room went silent.

Even Mr. Chompsky seemed impressed, though his face had been carved by nature specifically to reveal nothing.

Gwen held the page up like a sacred document.

“There it is,” she said softly.

Simmy stared at the paper. “There what is?”

“Our opening statement.”

“It was a malfunction.”

“It was branding.”

“It was smoke damage.”

“It was destiny with toner.”

Ned looked at the page.

Something about it worked. It sounded polite and threatening at the same time, like a southern aunt with access to a printer. It apologized before causing trouble. It announced concern as if concern itself had become a storm system.

Teo whispered, “We should frame it.”

Simmy whispered back, “We should ventilate the room.”

Gwen turned to Dale.

“Mr. Kurtz, Mr. Chompsky, Maddie,” she said, “Care-In LLC accepts your case.”

Dale looked relieved.

Maddie’s phone comments exploded.

Mr. Alvarez muttered, “This whole office is a code violation.”

Gwen placed the smoking paper on the reception desk.

“Our first act,” she said, “will be to draft a letter to your HOA.”

Simmy sat at the computer.

Ned stood beside her with the notepad.

Teo hovered dramatically behind them.

Gwen began pacing.

“Opening line,” Gwen said. “To whom it may concern—”

Simmy typed.

“No,” Teo said. “Too weak. To whom it should concern.”

Ned snapped his fingers. “To whom it has failed to concern until now.”

Gwen pointed at him. “Good.”

Simmy typed, then stopped. “That sounds hostile.”

“It sounds awake,” Gwen said.

Maddie whispered to her live audience, “They’re cooking.”

Dale looked into the turtle container. “You hearing this, buddy?”

Mr. Chompsky opened his mouth slightly.

Teo stumbled backward. “He speaks.”

“He’s breathing,” Simmy said.

“He’s endorsing.”

“He is a turtle.”

“He is a client.”

Gwen raised a hand again.

“Team,” she said, “focus. Our task is simple. We must transform one HOA’s careless insult into a dignified, legally harmless, emotionally devastating response.”

Simmy nodded despite herself. “That is actually the job.”

Ned leaned over the keyboard.

“May I suggest a sentence?”

Simmy glanced at him. “Go ahead.”

Ned cleared his throat.

“We are writing on behalf of Mr. Chompsky, a resident turtle of good standing, whose habitat has been described in terms that appear to diminish not only his aesthetic contribution to the neighborhood, but the broader reptilian tradition of sunning, soaking, and existing with quiet prehistoric authority.”

The room went still.

Teo slowly removed his sunglasses again.

Gwen pressed a hand to her heart.

Simmy looked at Ned with new respect.

Dale whispered, “That’s my boy.”

Maddie’s comments went wild.

Mr. Alvarez blinked. “I hate that I understand it.”

Gwen smiled.

“Ned Cruz,” she said, “welcome to Care-In LLC.”

Ned felt his face warm.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ve had practice apologizing to furniture.”

No one asked.

That was another thing he liked about the place.

For the next twenty minutes, the office became a factory of polished grievance.

Simmy kept the letter structured and safe. Gwen added rhetorical lift. Teo contributed phrases like “amphibious-adjacent slander,” which Simmy deleted because turtles were not amphibians and because Teo needed boundaries. Ned found the perfect balance between absurdity and sincerity, which turned out to be the entire company’s business model.

The finished letter was three paragraphs long.

It did not threaten.

It did not accuse.

It did, however, suggest that the HOA had failed to appreciate “the ecological dignity and community charm of a carefully maintained turtle-forward outdoor environment.”

It requested clarification, reconsideration, and “a neighborly path toward restorative understanding.”

It ended with:

We regret to inform you that we care.

When Simmy printed the letter, the copier did not scream.

It hummed.

Teo bowed to it. “Growth.”

Dale signed the client agreement.

Maddie posted a clip.

Gwen upgraded them to Publicly Wounded with a discount she called “founding chaos pricing.”

Mr. Alvarez left after warning them that the cone was watching.

By 11:05 a.m., Care-In LLC had one paying client, one missed mural, a possible parking cone inquiry, eight hundred social media viewers, and a copier that seemed to respond positively to affirmation.

Simmy stood behind the reception desk, staring at the signed agreement.

“Well,” she said. “That happened.”

Teo leaned beside her. “We’re real now.”

“We were legally real yesterday.”

“Emotionally real.”

Ned looked out the front window.

Rain slid down the glass. Cars hissed along the street. Across the road, the vitamin prophecy smoothie stand had put up a new sign that read:

TODAY’S FLAVOR: CONSEQUENCE

Tampa kept moving.

Messy, humid, loud, half-broken, deeply alive.

Somewhere in the city, a mural felt ignored. A cone felt disrespected. A turtle had representation.

And Care-In LLC, against several reasonable expectations, was open for business.

The phone rang again.

Everyone looked at it.

Simmy answered.

“Care-In LLC,” she said. “We regret to inform you that we care.”

She listened.

Her eyes widened.

Then she covered the receiver and looked at Gwen.

“It’s the mural,” she said.

Gwen smiled like thunder in heels.

“Team,” she said, “bring me the intake form for public art.”

“We don’t have one,” Simmy said.

Gwen pointed at the copier.

“Then we make one.”

From inside the plastic container on the desk, Mr. Chompsky blinked once.

In Care-In LLC’s official meeting notes, Ned later recorded it as the company’s first blessing.