Seventy-five minutes later, having promised the costumers an events intern and two swings to help them source, collect, and dye the hats, Zanne was back at the estate. She put her ear to the closed door to Ted’s office and heard nothing. Not on the phone. She knocked and went in.

Ted sat at his desk, and Zanne felt the butterflies she’d come to expect whenever she worked this closely with him. He was dressed in his usual T-shirt and track pants, a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and flip-flops—the most powerful person in the room being the person who gives the least shit about the impression he’s creating. His blond hair was half grown through with gray and ready for his every-six-weeks trim to keep his bushy curls in line.

Zanne emptied the outbox and pulled open the window shades, but neither the noise nor the light could divert Ted’s focus. He had a child’s ability to concentrate, as if he were a ten-year-old boy playing with Legos, in his own world.

Down the hall was a small kitchen, a bathroom, the edit bay, and a screening room. Zanne left to fix herself some coffee, closing the door again behind her. Ted preferred Red Bull, which they kept by the case in the refrigerator, along with cut carrots, homemade hummus, and pints of blueberries. These superfoods were the only snacks the staff was allowed to stock for him, but in the credenza behind his desk was the contraband Ted ordered for himself online. Beef jerky, Funyuns, Cracker Jacks. The mail room knew to tape these boxes back up when they came and to deliver them straight to Ted. Zanne made herself a cup of coffee from a pod, then went back to Dawn’s desk and waited.