Five more minutes until their nine-thirty agenda call, when they would review his plans and priorities for the day. Sure, they could speak face-to-face about his agenda, but why? With the magic of technology, there was no need for Ted to look Zanne in the eye, to read her cues and her body language, to sense when she grew nervous, bored, or frustrated. Likewise, with a wall and fifteen feet of fiber-optic cable between them, he could feel free to express his unvarnished opinions about everything, from the poor formatting of a research report on SAT tutoring for Flynn to the lack of consistency among the travel team (who were supposed to follow an identical script on Ted’s trips, so why were some of them punctual and invisible and others apologetic and annoying?) to his request that the gym be wiped down and squeegeed within fifteen minutes of Holly finishing her hot yoga, which fogged up the windows and left a gross residue of condensation and (he feared) sweat on all of the equipment. Over the phone or via email, Ted could say whatever he wanted, not because he wanted to say these things but because they were necessary. Over the phone or via email, it was irrelevant if the person on the other end was biting her tongue or burning with embarrassment or chewing her nails or tearing her hair out.

In quiet corners of the staff, debates raged about why Ted was the way he was. Some said it was his upbringing. Raised as a latchkey kid in New York City by a young widow, Ted hadn’t been coddled, so why should he coddle them? Some said he was a left brain in a town made for right brains. Some said it was the money, that he’d gotten so comfortable, he’d forgotten how to feel. Some said he felt too much—anyone who watched his films could plainly see his obsession with the human heart; of course he would want to shield his. Others thought Ted was a skilled mimic who could represent in film more emotions than he was capable of experiencing himself. They were all a little bit right, as far as Zanne was concerned.

Still, he wasn’t all bad. The upside of his dispassionate evaluation of people was this—he didn’t give a damn what you looked like, if you were beautiful or thin or blond, whether you wore the right labels or had holes in your shirt. He didn’t care if you were gay or Black or tattooed. He didn’t care who you knew or if you knew absolutely no one. All he cared was that you were smart. He paid you to think, to solve problems the way he would if he couldn’t afford to outsource them. If you got that right, you stayed. If you got it wrong, you were out.