Brazil had just been screwed and couldn’t believe it. He stared at his editor, who had just failed the only thing Brazil had ever expected of him.

“No way I’m being babysat, censored by the brass!” Brazil exclaimed and didn’t care who heard. “I didn’t go to their damn academy to . . .”

Packer didn’t care who heard for a different reason. He had been a complaint department for the past thirty years, here and at home, and his attention span tended to flicker in and out as he mentally drove through different cells, picking up garbled snippets of different conversations. He suddenly recalled what his wife had said at breakfast about stopping for dog food on the way home. He remembered he had to take his wife’s puppy to the veterinarian at three for some sort of shot, then Packer had a doctor’s appointment after that.

“Don’t you understand?” Brazil went on. “They’re just handling me. They’re just trying to use me for PR!”

Packer got up. He towered wearily over Brazil like a weathered tree gathering more shadow the older it grows.

“What can I say?” Packer said, and his shirt was untucked again. “We’ve never done this before. It’s what the cops, the city, are offering. You’ll have to sign a waiver. Take notes. No pictures. No videotapes. Do what you’re told. I don’t want you getting shot out there.”

“Well, I’ve got to go back home to change into my uniform,” Brazil decided.

Packer walked off, hitching up his pants, heading to the men’s room. Brazil slumped back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling as if the only stock he owned had just crashed. Panesa watched him through glass, interested in how he was going to turn this around, and convinced he would. Systems analyst Brenda Bond blatantly glared at him from a nearby computer she was fixing. Brazil never paid her any mind. She was repulsive to him, thin and pale, with coarse black hair. She was hateful and jealous, and certain she was smarter than Brazil and all because computer experts and scientists were like that. He imagined Brenda Bond spending her life on the Internet inside chat rooms, because who would have her?

Sighing, Brazil got up from his chair. Panesa watched Brazil pick up an ugly red rose in a Snapple bottle, and the publisher smiled. Panesa and his wife had desperately wanted a son, and after five daughters it was either move to a larger home, become Catholic or Mormon, or practice safe sex. Instead, they had gotten divorced. He could not imagine what it must be like to have a son like Andy Brazil. Brazil was striking to look at, and sensitive, and though all the results weren’t in, the biggest talent ever to walk through Panesa’s door.

Tommy Axel was typing a big review of a new k.d. lang album that he was listening to on earphones. He was a goofball, sort of a Matt Dillon who wasn’t famous and never would be, Brazil thought. He walked up to Axel’s desk and clunked the rose next to the keyboard as Axel boogied in his Star Trek tee shirt. Surprised, Axel pushed the earphones down around his neck, faint, thin music leaking out. Axel’s face was smitten. This was the One for him. He had known it since he was six, somehow had a premonition that a divine creature like this would overlap orbits with his when the planets were aligned.