The extended hand belongs to a person quite the opposite of the homeowner. Alex is a stocky black woman, her hair cropped short and dyed yellow, a wig of microwave popcorn. She looks tough but understanding, the sleeves of a man’s oxford shirt rolled past forearms like chimneys. Her Nikes are spotless and have a boisterous, Las Vegas color scheme. Henry slackens with relief. Her he can handle, see things eye to eye. Even her bone-crushing handshake is better than strained chitchat about airline preferences or golf handicaps.

Henry’s greeting enters the air perfectly naturally, exactly as he’s rehearsed.

“Pleasure is all mine, Henry. Right this way.”

Alex has the sturdy, bow-legged gait of a shot-putter. Past the reception area, the space opens into a sprawling factory floor striped with a series of desks and men arranged as neatly as a tractor-plowed field. All the rows dart and shrink toward the same point—a mirror-paneled cube in the center of the floor, as if it’s there to force the men to watch themselves being watched. Bulky male necks and shoulders stiffen as Alex and Henry pass from behind, though not a single head turns to greet or even peek at them. The employees sit shoulder to shoulder, speaking into headsets and staring at computer monitors, wearing polo shirts the same traffic-cone orange of county jail smocks. Despite the vast spread of this office, its ceiling feels oppressively low, amplifying the collective din of voices, keystrokes, mouse clicks, and that ceaseless lightbulb drone.

The center cube is Alex’s office. Inside it is neat and sparse. Reminds Henry of the interrogation room, except here the one-way mirror is reversed and on all sides, turning him into an invisible spectator in the center of a sold-out arena. Alex falls into an ergonomic, micronetted desk chair with spacecraft-worthy lumbar support. The chair Henry sits on is a stiff, unwelcoming contraption, like a bear trap caught mid-clamp. When he sits, the backrest bends him to attention. He shifts, settles, then shifts again, kicking an ankle onto his knee. His fingers interlock, then sink to rest over his belly button. Having found an arrangement of limbs he hopes showcases a balanced blend of poise and affability, he gives Alex a frown of approval. This is her cue. She may begin.

“I’m sure you’re familiar with what we do here, but legal makes me give every applicant this same rundown before the interview itself, so bear with me, k, Henry?”

“Sure thing,” he says, certain he’s never uttered those two words together. The chin dip now dispatched is meant to convey how thoroughly versed he already is in all that she’s about to relay, as well as how sympathetic he is to the nuisance of legal’s insistence on such tiresome protocol. So, yes, by all means, Alex. Proceed.