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and that’s what we’re going to do. Now try to pull it together.”
    Even though we’ve already decided that I’m going to be the one doing all the talking, I’m still slightly mortified that Randal will do something to embarrass me, like start weeping in the middle of my speech. For a second, I consider walking out of the room and letting him do the presentation himself. If they’re going to shoot the messenger, I’d rather it were him than me. In this Peaked-out state, no one would probably believe him anyway.
    Except I can’t do that. It would be disloyal to the Company. The news we have to deliver is too important.
    I glance around. The board meetings are televised Companywide, and everyone is required to watch. Imager cameras, suspended on cranes, move back and forth above us, their lenses trained on the fourth wall of the room. There, a gigantic, backlit N-Corp logo—the N and the cross—stand in relief against the granite wall. Beneath it runs the raised dais where the board members sit. If Randal doesn’t get it together by the time those chairs are occupied, we’re going to look like idiots.
    “There’s something else, May,” he’s saying. “Not only is the C-Company heading for a loss—there’s also a discrepancy in the Africa Division accounting. Trillions of dollars are unaccounted for, May. Trillions.”
    “Randal, you mentioned the Africa Division stuff before. It wasn’t part of our assignment, all right? Forget about it.” Donning the most commanding voice I can, I grip his shoulder hard and steer him into a chair. “Sit down,” I say.
    He does, but his lips keep moving, silently continuing his protests. The squeal of a microphone wheels me around, and I take my seat just as Jimmy Shaw steps up to the mic and asks, in that soft, pleasant drawl of his, for everyone to please stand up.
    Just the sight of old Uncle Jimmy instantly puts me at ease.
    In many ways, Jimmy Shaw is an average sixty-three-year-old man: he’s of normal stature, with shoulders slightly stooped from age. His hands, large and perfectly manicured, rest atop his signature black cane with its cross-shaped handle. His hair is thick, wispy, and white, and the skin of his face is pink and supple looking, probably softer than a baby’s hindquarters. He’s had fairly extensive plastic surgery like everyone else in the Company, but he still looks fairly normal. Not like half of the tight-skinned monstrosities I’ve seen running around Headquarters.
    He clears his throat and everyone bows their heads.
    “Mighty Lord of Hosts, we thank you for your presence here today. We know that your will has led our great Company to its current state of unprecedented prominence, and we ask your guidance as we continue in our quest to raise the entire world on the wings of our humble industriousness. It’s in your name we pray, Amen. ”
    The lights glisten off Shaw’s sapphire eyes as he steps away from the podium with a satisfied nod. In a rush of shuffling and soft clunking sounds, everyone takes their seats.
    That’s when I feel her watching me. She sits on the far side of the aisle, and when I look over at her, her hazel eyes hold my gaze. We stare at one another, frozen in time, as if in a contest to see who will look away first.
    As the moment stretches on, I study her. She must be my age, no older. Her skin is china-doll smooth. Her hair, long and honey blond, is tied back from a flawlessly sculpted face. Her full lips bear a smile laced with an almost smug sense of self-assurance. Even the cross in her cheek can’t diminish the extraordinary harmony of her features. She is exquisite.
    I have no idea who she is, but God would I like to find out.
    My heart beats an uneven cadence in my chest, and I’m suddenly aware that my cheeks are burning, my shirt soaking through with sweat. I snap my head back toward the stage just as the Company song starts playing, sounding strangely tinny even over the ultrapremium N-Audio speakers