Klay sat down on the edge of the hotel room bed. On the cart in front of him was his dinner: a roasted half chicken, French fries, three bottles of Castle Lager, a cup of rice pudding, and a salad. He hadn’t asked for the salad. He poured ketchup on his plate, switched on his laptop, and opened up his email. His screen filled with unread messages, nearly all from Porfle. They began two days ago, he noted, before the office shake-up.

The subject line of the oldest message read, “URGENT!”

He opened it.

“TK. Call me. Porf.”

Then another. “T. Need to speak ASAP! Personnel! Send time. A.P.” Klay looked at the time and date: an hour had passed since the first email.

Then, a third, just hours from the last. “URGENT!!!!!! Tom, I have tried repeatedly to reach you. Urgent personnel matter. Sharon requires response IMMEDIATELY! Pls. provide times for a conference call! Alexander Porfle.”

Klay ate a piece of chicken, dipped a French fry in the ketchup.

He opened an email from Erin. “Hi Tom. Well, they cut me. Legends had to Fall. Hahaha. Don’t worry. I’m happy to go. Grant and I may move to Denver. Thought you’d be interested in the below.”

She had included a link to a New York Times article. Klay clicked on the link and read the headline: “Times Journalist Struck in Hit-and-Run.”

He scanned the story. Raynor McPhee had been returning to his apartment around one a.m., crossing Berry Street in Brooklyn, when a car struck him from behind. No witnesses. Nothing caught on neighborhood surveillance cameras. Raynor suffered two broken legs, a concussion, and a broken wrist. Police were investigating.

Beneath the article was a box with links to three of Raynor’s most recent articles. The latest was “The World’s New OK Corral.” Klay clicked on it.