“Hi,” she said. Her smile cracked the lip stain she’d put on twenty minutes ago. “How’s it going?”

She wasn’t listening for an answer. Her hands sat on the desk next to an open journal, a blank page beneath a pen lying across the crease like she’d been interrupted mid-thought.

“All is right with the world.” Steve heard himself say it, immediately regretting the word “world,” feeling like he was performing on America’s Got Talent, forcing his hands to his sides. Rumors from the accounting department said one man put his hands in his pockets in her office — or so the story went — and he was fired three days later. Steve didn’t believe it. He kept his hands out anyway.

The oak desk soaked up most of the office space. Mickey picked it because it put six feet of wood between her and whoever was standing where Steve was standing now.

“Steve. When am I going to see the marketing plan? I’ve asked twice.”

His palms went damp. “I was waiting on budget approval. We’re going to need more than what’s allocated — the numbers don’t work otherwise.”

Mickey made VP by remembering things coworkers forgot to protect. An idea here, a phrase there, borrowed off some mid-level analyst in a meeting three years ago and never returned. Her smile didn’t move when she thought about it. It just sat there, doing its job.

“How much more?” She glanced toward the ceiling, toward Marsdon’s floor. “That might be a conversation I need to have upstairs.” Her fingers went tap tap tap against the desk. “Do you have a number?”

“Not a hard one. Give me until end of day.”

She stood. Steve’s sweat felt like it was bleeding through his undershirt to his collar. Now she was standing, and somehow that was worse than the desk had ever been.

“I’ll talk to Marsdon before you’ve got a number, then.”

“I’ll have something before lunch, Ms. Francelli.”

“Good.” She was already looking past him at something else. “Call, text, email — whichever. This afternoon.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She came around the desk to shake his hand, which he hadn’t expected, and he took it before he could think about how wet his palm was. She let go a half-beat early. He noticed. He wasn’t sure she meant for him to.

“Good day, Steve.”

He got the door open before he remembered to breathe out. Two hours, he was thinking, maybe less.

Dana was waiting by the elevator, arms crossed. “How’d it go?”

“Fine. I told her before lunch.”

“Do we have that?”

“We will.”

The elevator doors closed before she could ask again.