Sandra escaped the gymnasium briefly to the hallway, sticking her head, ostrich-like, into a drinking fountain recessed into the wall. She wished she could stay there forever, but there was only so much water she could swallow. When she pulled her head out, Rebecca Geary stood there, arms folded across her chest.

“Where’s Ruskin?” she asked. “If you don’t have any of the answers, he must. He was Lisa’s executive assistant, for Christ’s sake. Right now, at the worst possible time, this Fortune 500 company is leaderless, rudderless.”

How true. The vice president of Arrival was on some African safari and no one had been able to reach him. And even if they could, the best he’d be able to do is issue a statement. What the media needed was someone to be the face of the company, someone to go on camera, someone to take questions, someone who could at least give the impression that the Arrival corporation cared about the mess it had created, and would do everything in its power to make things right. And let’s face it, Rebecca was implying, Sandra was not cutting it.

“Off the record,” Sandra said, and she waited for Rebecca to give a nod of understanding, “I think Ruskin’s having a nervous breakdown.”

Rebecca’s expression gave no evidence of sympathy. “Yeah, well, people are dead. He needs to put on his big-boy pants and get out here.”

Sandra took a deep breath. “Let me try him again.”

The phone in her hand rang. She glanced down, saw hillary clinton on the screen. She declined the call.

She trotted down the hall to the administrative office. When she turned the handle, she found it locked. She rapped on the frosted glass.

“Ruskin!” she cried. “It’s me.”

When several seconds went by without a response, she rapped again, harder this time.

“If you don’t let me in I’m going to break—”

The door opened three inches, revealing a sliver of Albert Ruskin’s face.

“Are you alone?” he asked.

“I’m alone.”

He opened the door wider to admit her, then closed it and turned the lock.

“You have to get out there,” she said.

“I don’t care,” he said, turning his back to her and walking to the far corner of the room, as if he could somehow escape her there. Between them was a desk, and on top of it, the laptop that had belonged to Lisa Carver.

“You’re Arrival’s only official here. Your boss is dead. Your company’s reputation, if there’s anything of it left, is up to you to defend. There’s an angry media mob out there wondering why you’re not talking to them.”

“I . . . I just . . . I can’t . . .”