Never tell an actuary what’s possible. But Pat held his tongue, and Shapiro leaned forward in his seat, signaling that this was about over. The personnel folks had warned the managers: don’t let them linger, don’t give them time in the chair to think about it.

Pat went blank and bitter. He had stolen the buyout idea after he read about it in Forbes. DuPont had done it with their executives, Firestone too. Compensating job loss was an airline tradition going back to when they pushed Howard Hughes out at TWA. Back then it was called the golden parachute. And now Shapiro was standing up, and Pat stood up, and here it came—the golden handshake. But really, Pat wasn’t that important an employee. As Forbes would categorize the different levels, this was the golden boot.

Pat sipped, still thirsty, still trying to catch up to some scherzo where drinking and thinking were reconciled. Three months paid in full. Three months after twenty-seven years. When Pat was little he read a story about Shackleton, how he survived on an iceberg for days, killer whales bobbing above the surface, auditing him with their tiny, evil eyes, and then ramming the ice floe, trying to break it apart and drop him in the water. Pat placed the letter in front of him on the bar but couldn’t bear to open it. Those killer whales knew exactly what they were doing. He had to plan, and realized there was a plan for this: You have savings, you have insurance. But he didn’t have luck. He had illness. He had a wife terrified they’d all end up in the poorhouse. He couldn’t bear that all her pessimism would be proven right. All his work-related functions—company dinners Anne came along on—were now cast in a polar light of failure. She would pointlessly second-guess everything and wear him down. And wear herself down. And then remind him that Dan was going to college in two years.

Pat put the envelope back in his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He’d inherited this dark little cloud of misfortune from his mother. Hannah was born under a tough star. So what did she do? Work and worry. And that’s all Pat allowed himself to do. His father’s store, the airline. Work, work, work. And guess what, Mr. Malone: there’s no luck in it. Work just creates more work. I should have been smarter. I should have seen this coming. Not everyone is unlucky. And yes, Keith, I’ll have another.