And so Eric wanted the next book, the next relationship, the next thing, whatever it was, to be about something bigger and truer than what he’d done so far. He wanted something that would last at least as long as Mark’s portfolio. Longer.

He still had Marianne’s diamond solitaire (Christine, after their impromptu engagement, wanted to design her own ring). Just the other night, after Marianne kicked him out, he’d rummaged for it in the pocket of his suitcase, pulling out a lint-covered black velvet box, which traveled with him everywhere, even to Dubai. It opened with a familiar snap, and he was relieved to see that inside, everything was pristine. The white gold band had not been nicked or scratched, and the ring still had a satisfying heft in his hand. Long ago, a jeweler told him that the diamond quality was exceptional, but who could really tell? Eric turned the ring this way and that, watching as the stone caught and reflected light.

Eric sat grimly in the Ranch’s office, his laptop on Marianne’s desk, the door locked and the bank of fluorescent lights turned off. In the small Skype box that showed his own image, he saw a tired-looking, sallow-skinned, slump-shouldered man. Next to his laptop, a cardboard box spilled its contents across the desk: two large black smartphones and their various chargers, headphones, and GWGW-themed accessories—blue cross-embossed cases and blue styluses and microfiber screen cleaners.

“So I’m gonna give it to you straight,” Mark told him. Mark believed in bad news first, let’s-get-this-over-with, no sugarcoating. Nothing to cut the sting. Mark liked the sting, the risk of teetering, then toppling failure. It was what allowed him to do what he did, Eric assumed, all that financial roulette playing. But Eric didn’t like things straight—couldn’t Mark remember that much, at least, from childhood? His medicine had to be hidden in yogurt, the bad news of pet deaths or new schools or sick grandparents softened with ice cream or merry-go-rounds.

“Things are not looking good, bro,” Mark continued, leaning toward the screen. He looked healthy, ruddy, as if he’d just come back from tennis or a beach vacation. “You are way over budget. Way over.”

Eric picked up one of the smartphones—he supposed it was meant as a kind of softening-up, a toy to distract him, but its expensive heft gave him a sick feeling. He set the phone down again. “We can cut back on photocopying. We can advertise more, get more applicants. Getting more applicants would be great—”

“That doesn’t touch the kind of deficit I’m talking about,” Mark said. “We’re gonna have to think bigger here. Leveraging what we do have.”

“Okay,” Eric said, straightening and blinking. “I can go see Frances. She believes in our—”

“It’s beyond her means. Way beyond.”

“How can we be so behind? I mean, I know we went over budget on some things, but looking through all the paperwork, I just don’t get—”