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the algorithm, and then he memorized it. He walked out of here and wrote his own version, and then used it to create Cutter.”
    I suddenly have a new respect for Preston. He’s not just another tech-bro, boy-billionaire douchebag. Smuggling an entire software system out by memorizing it would require both an insane amount of discipline and genius.
    â€œI take it you don’t want to go to the authorities,” I say.
    Sloan makes a face. “Please. They couldn’t catch Madoff. You think they’d even understand this?”
    Fair point. “So use your own lawyers. Sue him.”
    â€œYou know that would take years. And it would require exposing all my software to his attorneys as well as the court. What’s worse, my own clients would react badly to news of this sort of a data breach. I rely on their confidence. If they were to find out that I’d had my most valuable trade secret stolen—”
    â€œThey might take their money to someone else,” I finish for him.
    â€œCorrect,” he says. “Even if I won, years from now, what then? Eli still has my knowledge inside his head. He could simply start over. I’d have to sue him again. The cycle would continue, over and over, and the only people who’d profit are the lawyers. I’m already an old man, Mr. Smith. I don’t have the time or patience for this to play out inside a courtroom. I know he’s stolen from me. I don’t need to be paid for it. Forgive me for sounding Old Testament, but I need him to be punished.”
    â€œIf you’re looking for someone to take out his eye, you could send one of your goons. It would probably be cheaper.”
    Irritation leaks through Sloan’s cool detachment for a moment. < thought a psychic would be quicker on the uptake> Out loud, he says, “I don’t need you to be a hired thug. I want my ideas back. I want you to recover my intellectual property. And then I want you to scrub every trace of it from Eli Preston’s head.”
    â€œI can recover the software,” I tell him. “I could even get inside his mind to find out how he stole it from you. But I can’t wipe out someone’s memories permanently.”
    He gives me a long, hard look. “Mr. Smith. Do you think I enjoy repeating myself? I told you: I know more than other people do. Why would I ask if I didn’t already know you were capable of it?”
    Another secret. This one I thought was buried deeper than Sloan could dig, honestly.
    â€œThen you must know that’s only ever happened once. And it wasn’t exactly planned.”
    Sloan taps his phone. He shows me the island on the screen again. “Well,” he says, “for what I’m offering you, I expect you’ll find a way to repeat that trick.”
    I look at the green square surrounded by blue one more time. Peace and quiet and a life of luxury. Everything I’ve ever wanted, right in front of me. It only takes a second for me to decide.
    â€œAll right,” I tell Sloan. “I’m in.”

[ 3 ]
    Sloan takes his private jet back. He drops me off at O’Hare on his way out of the country, and suddenly I’m Homer Simpson again, down here with the rest of you.
    I spent the night at a business-suite hotel in Sioux Falls, along with Sloan’s flight crew. The flight attendant and I found each other at the hotel bar, and then she used my body as impersonally and athletically as a StairMaster. In her mind, I was barely in the room at all. Which, honestly, is the way I prefer it.
    I should be in a better mood. But I threw up twice this morning—the chemo trick from yesterday catching up with me—and the Vicodin I swallowed with my morning coffee does nothing to shut out the herds of people in the airport. Now there’s pain and anxiety and boredom and discomfort from every person I pass, poking me like thorns. I get caught behind a morbidly obese man with a