She is wearing more makeup than usual, or at least, than she does when we’re up half the night coding. Her eyelids are shimmery and her hair is curled. The ringlets still fall perfectly, so she must have just done them. After all, the last time she curled it she kept telling me how quickly her hair tends to straighten out.

She hugs me, and the sharp smell of hair spray is overwhelming.

“Okay.” She leans back, her hands resting on my shoulders for a moment. “Let’s do this thing.”

I open the car door for her before walking around to climb in the other side. It’s a nice car; the inside has all the touches you don’t notice are missing in normal cars, but make you feel fancier as soon as you climb into this kind. Leather interior, seat heaters, a glowing touchscreen display in place of a radio with buttons.

“You know, you can get an Uber that’s not a town car,” Sara says, turning to Braden, who is sitting between us in the middle seat.

I pull my door closed. Even that feels different, the door heavier than usual.

“No offense to you, sir,” Sara adds to the driver.

“None taken.” The driver, a middle-aged man in a suit, laughs.

“Hey,” Braden says. “If you’re going to get a private car, you may as well really do it.”

Sara leans forward and looks over Braden to me, rolling her eyes.

I laugh and turn to him, waiting for another remark filled with elitism and bravado, but he is silent.

He’s wearing a black jacket over a crisp white shirt, far from any sort of First Communion, coming closer to a Vogue magazine. He looks young though, especially since he’s freshly shaven. And actually kind of pale in contrast to his blazer. He looks past the windshield to the road ahead, his eyes unwavering.

The first part of the meeting goes pretty much the exact same way as our previous attempt. We pull up to a rather unassuming building along Sand Hill. We take an elevator up to a modern and airy office. We are told to wait, greeted by a suave but surprisingly causal guy who offers us coffee and water, which we politely turn down.

We are shown to a large office and exchange pleasantries and handshakes with Thatcher Bell, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair but few wrinkles, perhaps because of medical assistance. He walks with an easy gait. We sit down and thank him for taking the time to meet with us.

And then the question comes.

“So how many users do you have?”

I hold my breath.

“With all due respect, sir,” Braden says. “That’s not the question you should be asking us.”

Mr. Bell raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t look offended. Surprised maybe, but not offended. Or at least, not offended yet. I bite my lip. Braden is playing with fire.