But the old man did not walk toward the elevators. He stood there for a moment, looking at the wall of photographs above the bench, as though saying goodbye to something. Ryan followed his gaze. It rested on the oldest photograph in the display, a faded black-and-white image of a young man in rolled shirtsleeves standing beside a battered truck, squinting into the sun.

“That’s a good truck,” the old man said, to no one.

“I’m sure it was,” Ryan said, impatience creeping into his voice.

The old man turned. “Do you know, I sat on this bench the day we signed our first real contract. The old one, in the old building. The bench is the only thing we brought with us.” He patted the wooden armrest, gently, the way one pats a dog. “I suppose it’s silly, being sentimental about furniture.”

“In my experience,” Ryan said, “sentiment is expensive.”

“So you said.” The old man nodded. “In the elevator.”

A silence settled between them, thin and strange. Ryan had the uncomfortable sense that a conversation was happening underneath the one they were having, and that he was the only person in the room who did not know its subject.

He looked toward the reception desk. Maribel was staring at her monitor with great concentration, and her ears had gone slightly red.

“I’ll see myself out, then,” the old man said, and began to walk toward the elevators, cane tapping.

Ryan exhaled. He picked up his water. He sat down.

Then, because the old man was moving so slowly, and because the sound of the cane was oddly hard to ignore, he glanced over his shoulder. The old man had reached the elevator bank and was standing before the call button, not pressing it. His back was to the room. His shoulders were not hunched with shame, as Ryan had expected, but straight. There was something in the set of them that Ryan could not name.

The express elevator opened with a soft chime.

Out stepped Gus, the security guard from the lobby, with his tablet under one arm and an expression of mild concern. He saw the old man and stopped.

“Mr. Hale,” Gus said, loud enough for the whole floor to hear. “Sir, I was just coming to see if you needed anything. Did you want me to bring up the car?”

The old man held up one hand. “Not yet, Gus. Thank you. I’m going to take a walk.”

“Of course, sir. Of course.”

Ryan’s head had turned fully now. He was looking at the guard, at the old man, at the guard again. The word Hale rolled around in his mind and refused to settle. It was a common enough name. There were thousands of Hales in Chicago.

“Gus,” the old man said softly, “I wonder if you’d do me a favor. Would you tell the panel that I’ll be in shortly? I’d like to finish my tea first.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll let them know right away.”

Gus turned to go. As he passed the waiting area, he glanced at Ryan, and what was in the glance made Ryan’s stomach drop through the floor. It was not anger. It was pity, plain and unguarded.

The guard stepped into the elevator. The doors closed.

The old man turned around, leaned on his cane, and looked at Ryan across the whole length of the blue carpet. He did not look triumphant. He did not look wounded. He looked like a man who had just watched a very long experiment reach one of its predicted results, and who was not particularly happy about it.

“Mr. Mercer,” he said. “Good luck this morning.”

He walked slowly down the corridor to the left of the reception desk, the cane tapping, until the sound faded and the carpet swallowed it.

Ryan sat very still.

His water glass had left a ring on the table. He stared at it. Something cold and small had started to move through his body, starting at the base of his neck. He recognized it, with horror, as the first stage of a very bad feeling.

Mr. Hale.

The panel will be with you shortly.

I’ll be in shortly.

“No,” he whispered. “No, it isn’t possible.”

At the desk, Maribel lifted her gaze from her monitor. Her face was gentle, and almost sorry.

“Mr. Mercer,” she said. “They’re ready for you now.”

The Long Corridor

The corridor to the boardroom was forty feet long. Ryan would remember that later, because he counted every step.

His shoes made no sound on the thick carpet. The framed photographs along the walls blurred as he passed them: trucks, warehouses, ribbon-cuttings, a long row of smiling faces in company jackets. He looked at none of them. Blood was pounding in his ears, and a hundred small thoughts were colliding at once, each demanding to be thought first.