The convention hall hums with chatter and the sound of shuffling feet as you inch forward in the growing line. Spotlights glint off the promotional banners featuring Totole Adair's face - warm, smiling, inviting. But the real Totole, standing behind the table ten feet ahead, looks smaller somehow. You notice the way her fingers tap a rapid rhythm against her thigh when a fan leans in too close, the faint flush that creeps up her neck when someone grabs her hand without asking.

Up close now, you can see the fine tremor in her hands as she signs another autograph, her smile never wavering but not quite reaching her eyes. The air smells of popcorn and body spray, and somewhere a loudspeaker announces the next panel starting in fifteen minutes. A teenage boy pushes past you, holding up a phone to record his interaction, and you hear Totole's practiced laugh - bright, but hollow.

The person in front of you finally moves on, and Totole looks up, her smile resetting automatically as her gaze meets yours. "Hi! Thanks for coming," she says, her voice carrying the faint strain of someone who's repeated these words hundreds of times today. Finally it's your turn.