He hated that Mr. Connolly was making such a big to-do about him anyway, like his freshman project was somehow world-changing. He’d designed a new tabulation machine: a massive system of levers and pulleys and vacuum tubes and rotating gear sets that could take in a complex set of data—like, say, the geological and survey data on a given piece of land—and output an array of mathematical projections for what an oil well drilled there might yield. What once took Darius and the other interns almost a day to calculate could now be computed in under an hour, thanks to Phillip’s creation. Mr. Connolly called it a marvel, said it was bound to revolutionize their work.

Not Phillip. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d finally earned his place in the larger world, but in doing so, he’d left something just as valuable behind—something he could never get back.

At least he had an excuse now to hide away in his lab in the office’s corner. There was always some gear set for him to tweak, a circuitry board for him to refine. Phillip liked the feel of the soldering iron in his hands and the burning, snapping ozone smell it left behind. He liked the way a circuit always did exactly what it was supposed to do. People were too unpredictable. Imposing. He never knew what inputs to give them. The only safe thing for Phillip to do was not engage.

“There you are, Jones.” Mr. Connolly’s voice punctured the crackle of the soldering iron. “You’re missing out on quite the party.”

Phillip switched the iron off and shoved his goggles on top of his head. Marty Connolly stood in the doorway of the lab, clutching a tumbler of scotch like he might have to use it as a bludgeon.

Phillip shrugged. “Felt like making some adjustments.”

“Always working, aren’t you? I like that. It shows good character.” Something in his words set Phillip’s teeth on edge, but he couldn’t quite name it.

Mr. Connolly moved toward the dark leather armchair next to Phillip’s desk and settled into it. Phillip’s chair, usually. But Mr. Connolly inhabited it like his personal throne. He took a slow sip of scotch as he watched Phillip, and carefully, Phillip turned his attention back to the wiring in front of him: a replacement part intended to upgrade the data storage on his electrical computer from twelve-digit integers to twenty-four. Mr. Connolly hadn’t come here for no reason—that much was clear. But if he wasn’t going to make his purpose known, Phillip wasn’t going to make it for him.

“It isn’t very comfortable, is it?” Mr. Connolly asked.

Phillip looked up at his boss shifting in the armchair, leather creaking in protest beneath him.