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Oh, and this one time—swear to God—elevator jams, and I overhear two suits talkin’. One’s braggin’ bout “findin’ a pro” at some dive bar. Says she quoted him *Ratatouille*—“The bitter truth we critics must face!”—before chargin’ him double. I’m dyin’ laughin’ in my head, like, “She’s a cinephile hooker?!” That’s my kinda gal—smart, sassy, rippin’ off idiots. Made me happy, thinkin’ she’s out there, schoolin’ fools.

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Finally, I make it. The place is packed. I mean, it’s like a concert for antiques. People everywhere, all hyped up. I’m feelin’ the energy, ya know? But then, bam! My mic cuts out. Just dead silence. I’m standin’ there, lookin’ like a deer in headlights. I can hear crickets. Like, really? In the middle of Ami?

Alaskan Bush People’s Ami Brown’s Medical Emergency Details: Everything We Know