In IRC chat rooms, he met like-minded people. Many were in San Francisco, Seattle, and New York, but plenty were in small towns across America, just like him. Most were young people in their basements or bedrooms typing away at night.

He downloaded several programming languages: C++, Python, Java, and Perl. He created a GeoCities page and began learning HTML and Javascript. He loved the logic of computer programming—it was a sharp contrast to the chaos and unpredictability of people on the rigs. Every day was a new puzzle to solve.

That summer, he busted three of his ribs on an offshore rig. He was home alone, recuperating, when two cars came barreling down the dirt driveway: a shiny Mercedes-Benz followed by a beat-up Ford pickup with two hunting rifles hanging in the back window.

Two men exited the Benz, both in suits. They were clean-shaven, their short hair combed to the side, and they were sweating like pigs. Desmond didn’t know either of them. He did know the lanky man who stepped out of the truck and sauntered toward the run-down house like he owned the place. His name was Dale Epply. He was another roughneck, possibly the only man Desmond knew who was meaner than Orville.

The suits introduced themselves, said they were from the West Texas Energy Corporation, and asked if they could come inside. Desmond forgot their names as soon as he heard them. He already knew what this was about.

Inside, they sat down, took him up on his offer for some iced tea and water, and with words that sounded very practiced, told Desmond that his uncle had died in an accident on a rig in the gulf. They waited for his reaction.

“Thank you for telling me,” Desmond said.

His eyes were dry. He couldn’t wait for them to leave.

One of the suits pushed an envelope across the chipped coffee table. The man was wearing a tie. Desmond assumed he was a lawyer. What he said next confirmed it.

“Your uncle, like all WTE contractors, signed a contract…”

Desmond couldn’t focus on the words. He heard only clips and phrases. Binding arbitration was part of the contract. Attorneys might contact Desmond about suing the company for wrongful death, but they were just opportunists and would be wasting his time. There was a standard death benefit, which was generous, they said, and, conveniently, it was contained in the envelope.

Desmond ripped it open. The check was for ten thousand dollars.

The two men watched him nervously. Dale looked bored. Desmond was pretty sure he knew why the man was there.

“Make it twenty-five thousand and you’ll never hear from me.”

The lawyer cut his eyes at the other man, who said, “I’m authorized to pay up to twenty thousand total.”

“That’s a deal,” Desmond said flatly.

Dale smirked.