Free Body and Bone by LS Hawker

mandatory, but that would cut way down on interaction if ­people had to identify themselves, and it was her numbers that kept her sponsors paying her.
    It was just a coincidence. A very specific coincidence.
    Nessa had to try and work, even though her concentration was shot full of holes. Too many things crowded into her brain. But with or without concentration, Nessa had to finish and put up a post before midnight, and nothing could get in the way of that. Her advertising agreement demanded she put out three posts a week, even if her estranged spouse was missing or dead, even if she was encapsulated in an iron lung, even if she was off-­planet. Advertising marched on.
    She sat down at her desk in front of the window that looked out on the hops vines and opened her laptop. Best thing to do was start typing. But she was interrupted by a quiet gasp from Isabeau.
    â€œHey, boss, I need to show you something.”
    Nessa swiveled in her chair as Isabeau picked up her laptop, walked over to the couch, and sat down. She beckoned to Nessa, who got up and sat next to her.
    â€œWhat is it?” Nessa said.
    Isabeau set her laptop on the coffee table and tapped the trackpad.
    â€œOkay, so I know you don’t do social media and all that, but I thought it might be useful to see what’s going on in the ’sphere, see if you’re being talked about out there. I know your advertisers are always looking for ways to increase your exposure, so anyway, I created a ­couple of Google alerts—­with search terms like Nessa , radio , Altair , deep cuts . That sort of thing. So I got a ­couple of alerts this morning—­”
    Isabeau typed into the address bar and pulled up her Google alerts page.
    â€œSo as it turns out,” she said, “you have a Twitter account. Where ‘you’ tweet all kinds of really idiotic shit. No offense. And from the bad grammar and the weird topics, I don’t think Altair is responsible.” Isabeau typed on her keyboard. “I’m pulling up Twitter and searching for @RadioNessa.”
    Nessa’s cell phone rang. Her contact at Altair. She let it go to voicemail and pocketed it before looking at Isabeau’s screen. A Twitter profile page appeared with the bio: Obamma was born in Kenya. He has no right to be the presdient. Someone should assinate him.
    Nessa whipped her head toward Isabeau, her mouth so wide she could swallow a dinner plate. “We have to delete this.”
    â€œWe can’t,” Isabeau said. “It’s not your account. It’s not, is it?”
    â€œOf course not! Look at the spelling!”
    Was that really what she was so twisted up about? The spelling?
    â€œI voted for Obama,” Nessa said, the defensiveness in her voice making her cringe. “Both times.”
    â€œOh,” Isabeau said. “I didn’t. Not crazy about his foreign policy. But I definitely don’t want him dead.”
    â€œHow do we get this taken down?”
    â€œWe can’t. Unless we can prove this person meant you harm, meant for ­people to think this is actually you.”
    â€œOf course I can prove it. Look at my voting record. Look at my spelling , for God’s sake.”
    Again with the spelling.
    â€œAnyway,” Isabeau said, “I don’t think that’s going to be enough to persuade a judge to issue a take-­down order. But I’m going to report it to Twitter.”
    Who was this girl? Where did all this knowledge come from?
    â€œKeep reading. It gets worse.”
    Nessa read through some more politically incorrect invective, and then she saw this:
    The earthquake in Java was retribushon for legalizing gay mariage.
    Nessa groaned. “Enough,” she said. “I can’t read any more.”
    â€œWell, you obviously haven’t gotten to the worst one. You need to see it.”
    Nessa kept scrolling until she got to a highlighted tweet, one that was twice the size of