Chapter 1

The late-morning sun slanted across the cracked sidewalk in front of the nondescript storefront on 14th Street, casting long shadows of seven men who looked as though they had collectively wandered into the wrong neighborhood. A small, handwritten sign taped to the glass door read “Karen’s Assertiveness Training - Pickup Location. Do NOT knock unless you mean it.” None of them had knocked. They stood in a loose, anxious cluster, shifting weight from foot to foot, avoiding eye contact the way cats avoid water.

First in the loose semicircle was Harold Finch, forty-seven, an actuary whose entire posture seemed engineered to take up as little space as possible. He wore a beige cardigan two sizes too large over a pale blue dress shirt buttoned to the very top, khaki slacks with perfect creases, and brown loafers polished to a nervous shine. His thinning hair was combed straight across a shiny scalp, and he kept one hand tucked into his cardigan pocket, clutching a roll of antacids like a security blanket. Harold spoke only when directly addressed, and even then in a voice barely louder than the traffic.

Next to him stood Dennis Park, thirty-two, a software tester who rarely left his apartment except for groceries and mandatory team-building days. Dennis wore an oversized gray hoodie with the company logo faded from too many washes, cargo shorts despite the mild spring chill, and scuffed white sneakers. His black hair flopped over wire-rimmed glasses that he constantly pushed up his nose. He held a battered paperback fantasy novel in front of himself like a shield.

Walter “Walt” Benson, fifty-one, a postal carrier who knew every route in Queens but dreaded eye contact with actual humans, fidgeted in his navy windbreaker and matching postal pants he hadn’t bothered to change out of. His belly strained gently against a tucked-in polo shirt, and his thick mustache twitched whenever anyone looked his way. Walt kept clearing his throat as if preparing to speak, then saying nothing.

Beside Walt hovered Jeremy Kline, twenty-six, a barista whose voice cracked whenever he had to announce a customer’s name. Tall and painfully thin, Jeremy wore a black turtleneck that swallowed his neck, slim dark jeans, and worn Converse sneakers with holes in the toes. His long brown hair was pulled into a limp ponytail, and he hugged a canvas messenger bag to his chest as though it might protect him from conversation.

Philip Moreau, thirty-nine, an assistant librarian who still lived with his mother, stood slightly apart, polishing his glasses with a microfiber cloth he kept in his breast pocket. He wore a tweed jacket with elbow patches (despite it not being 1973), a checkered button-down, corduroy trousers, and sensible brown shoes. A faint scent of old books and chamomile tea clung to him. Philip’s shoulders curved inward as if trying to fold himself into a more compact, less noticeable shape.

Marcus “Marky” Torres, twenty-eight, a freelance graphic designer who mostly designed logos for churches and local dentists, wore a faded black graphic tee featuring an obscure anime character, an open flannel shirt, and ripped jeans. His curly dark hair was hidden under a beanie he refused to remove indoors or out. Marky’s eyes darted everywhere except at the other men; he kept biting the inside of his cheek.

Finally, at the edge of the group, Ronald “Ron” Whitaker, forty-four, a claims adjuster whose greatest professional achievement was never having to call an angry customer back, stood in a rumpled gray suit that had seen better decades. The tie was slightly crooked, and his shoes needed reheeling. Ron’s face had the perpetual expression of a man waiting to be scolded.

The silence had grown heavy enough to taste when Dennis finally spoke, his voice cracking halfway through.

“So... uh... anyone else get, like, strongly encouraged to be here?”

A few weak chuckles rippled through the group, more out of relief that someone had broken the quiet than actual amusement.

“My wife signed me up,” Harold admitted, staring at his loafers. “She said if I couldn’t tell the neighbor to stop parking on our lawn, she was going to start leaving passive-aggressive notes herself. She... she practiced them on me first. They were very effective.”

Walt cleared his throat three times. “My boss told me if I didn’t improve my ‘customer-facing demeanor,’ I’d be stuck on parcel sorting forever. He used the phrase ‘human equivalent of a screensaver.’”

Jeremy hugged his bag tighter. “My therapist said this counts as exposure therapy. She gave me a laminated card with coping statements. I lost it on the subway.”

Philip adjusted his glasses for the fourth time. “My mother printed out the registration form and left it on my pillow. With a Post-it that said ‘You’re thirty-nine, Philip.’”

Marky gave a nervous laugh that sounded like a hiccup. “My roommates made it a house rule. They said I apologize to furniture when I bump into it. Which... fair.”

Ron sighed deeply. “HR department. Mandatory leadership track. They said I have the assertiveness of a polite ghost.”

The men fell quiet again, the weight of their reservations settling over them like a damp blanket. Harold popped another antacid. Dennis pretended to read his book but hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes. Jeremy’s leg bounced rapidly enough to make his shoelaces tremble.

“I keep thinking,” Walter said slowly, “what if this Karen person makes us... yell at each other? Or role-play asking for refunds? I hate asking for refunds. I once kept a broken toaster for three years because the customer service line felt judgmental.”

Philip nodded vigorously. “I read the online reviews. One person said she made a man cry by staring at him in silence until he asserted his need for a bathroom break. Another said she made them return soup at a restaurant. Actual soup. In front of people.”

The group shuddered in collective horror.

A sleek black van turned the corner, slowing as it approached. The side window bore elegant gold lettering: Karen’s Assertiveness Training - We Fix Doormats.

The seven men straightened slightly, then immediately slouched again. Seven pairs of anxious eyes watched the van glide to a stop at the curb. The driver’s door opened.

None of them moved forward. Not yet.

They were already regretting every decision that had led them here-except, perhaps, the ones who had been given no choice at all.

Chapter 2

The chartered bus hummed along the highway, carrying its load of freshly graduated participants from Karen’s Assertiveness Training back toward the city. Seven men sat among the other passengers, but any casual observer would have done a double take at the dramatic change in their collective presence.

Harriette Finch adjusted the collar of her lavender floral satin blouse with a sharp tug, the silky fabric catching the light as she crossed her arms. Her thinning hair had been cut and styled into a perfectly smooth Classic Bob that framed her face with blunt precision. Rich pink lipstick glistened on her lips, complemented by soft blush and matching eyeshadow. “Excuse me,” she called loudly toward the front of the bus, her voice carrying the clipped authority of someone who expected immediate obedience. “This air conditioning is far too cold. I paid good money for this seminar, and I expect a comfortable return trip. Someone needs to speak to the driver right now.”

Next to her, Denise Park fanned herself dramatically with a printed seminar handout, her A-Line Bob swaying as she shook her head. The pale pink floral satin top she wore had delicate ruffles at the neckline. “Honestly, Harriette, you’re being too nice about it. Driver! Hello? This is ridiculous. My skin is drying out. I have sensitive skin, you know. I demand we stop somewhere with proper temperature control.”

Wanda Benson, her Inverted Bob angled sharply at the jawline, leaned forward in her emerald-green floral satin blouse. The bold pattern stretched across her postal-worker frame. “This is exactly what I was saying during the practical exercises. You have to speak up or they walk all over you. I told that role-play barista three times that my oat milk was not frothy enough. Three times! And you know what? I got a free replacement and an apology.” She snapped her fingers for emphasis. “That’s how you handle these people.”

Jeri Kline flicked at an imaginary speck on her crimson floral satin wrap-style top, her Blunt Bob sitting heavy and straight just above her shoulders. The tall, thin man now carried himself with the impatient energy of a soccer mom who’d been waiting in line too long. “These bus seats are atrocious. My back is already acting up. If I don’t get a proper lumbar cushion by the next stop, I’m speaking to the manager of this entire transportation company. I have rights, you know.”

Philippa Moreau-still insisting everyone call him Philip but answering just as readily to Philippa-smoothed down his Textured Bob, which had volume and movement the old librarian could have only dreamed of. His soft blue floral satin button-up blouse shimmered every time he gestured. “The seminar was life-changing, girls-I mean, gentlemen-but they really should have provided better refreshments afterward. I had to ask three different staff members for more chamomile tea. Three! And the last one had the nerve to tell me they were closing the snack table. I spoke to the manager immediately. Assertiveness means never backing down.”

Marcia Torres adjusted her beanie-free Wavy Bob, the brunette waves bouncing as she scoffed. Her vibrant yellow floral satin blouse was unbuttoned just enough to show dramatic flair. “My old roommates are going to faint when they see the new me. I already texted them that if they leave dishes in the sink again, I’m calling the landlord and demanding they be evicted. No more Mr. Nice Guy. Or Miss Nice Guy. Whatever. I deserve a clean kitchen.”

Rhonda Whitaker, sporting a dramatic Asymmetric Bob that swept longer on one side, tapped her manicured nails (painted to match the pink lipstick) against the window. Her deep rose floral satin blouse rustled as she shifted with clear irritation. “This traffic is unacceptable. I have important things to do. I have a lawn that needs protecting from that inconsiderate neighbor. First thing tomorrow I’m marching over there and telling him exactly where he can park his ugly truck. And if he doesn’t like it, he can speak to my lawyer. Or the homeowners’ association. Or both.”

The group nodded vigorously, feeding off one another’s energy.

“Can you believe how timid we used to be?” Harriette said with a superior little laugh, touching her Classic Bob. “Waiting around like doormats. Never again. I want to speak to the manager of my entire life.”

“Same,” Denise added, lips pursed in pink disapproval. “That seminar was worth every penny. Karen really knows how to bring out the real man in you.”

A service worker from the bus company walked down the aisle offering water bottles. The seven immediately straightened.

“These are room temperature,” Wanda announced loudly. “I specifically need them chilled. Who do I speak to about this?”

Jeri waved a hand dismissively. “Typical. You can’t get good help these days.”

The men-still very much men in their own minds-clucked and complained and demanded with all the entitled energy of seasoned Karens, their satin floral tops rustling, their bobbed hair swaying, and their newly assertive voices filling the bus with a chorus of minor grievances and grand self-importance.