"Research, Mr. Edwards. I told you."
"But why? What does this have to do with golf?"
"Nothing," Elise said, as she stepped up to the green and surveyed the slope between her ball and the hole.

Edwards followed, putter in hand, but he wasn't even looking at his ball. "I don't understand," he said.
"Then I'll explain. When an insurance company screws you, you're left looking at a letter with a phone number that's answered by a machine that gives you a menu. If you're lucky enough to get a live operator, she either dumps you back into the automation or sends you to the extension of someone whose voice mail promises they'll get back to you.

If they ever do, you can't yell at them because they 'just work here' and don't make up the rules, so they send you a ten-page form to fill out with irrelevant questions that require hours, if not days, to answer. The system is designed to exhaust you," she said, getting down on one knee to eye the path to the hole.

"What…what is this about?" Edwards said, his confusion growing to anger.
"It's about accountability, Mr. Edwards. An eye for an eye, not an eye for an adjustment on a spreadsheet. When a life is affected, you can't just keep pointing to a policy." Elise took a practice swing, then putted. She missed by inches. "Well, this is your big chance to pull even."
"Who are you? What do you want?"

Elise tipped in her ball, then paused and shot him a fierce glare. "Two excellent questions, Mr. Edwards. Now I have your attention. I tried getting it a few months ago, when my brother was still alive. But then, you weren't interested in who I was or what I wanted. All you wanted to do then was question the diagnosis and deny coverage. By the time your company approved the operation, Jules was dead."