Page 6 of Brooklynaire

“Clinching the playoffs next week, huh?” I poke his foot with my toe. “I’d better chill thechampagne.”

“That’s more like it.” His glance travels around my cramped living room, where a giant package of disposable diapers is wedged under the coffee table, and three discarded pacifiers dot the floor. “Are you going to be able to get the peace and quiet here that you need toheal?”

“It’ll be fine,” I insist. “We’re usually not all home at the same time.” That’s true, but only because I’m the one who’s usually atwork.

Nate stands up. “You’ll call me if you needanything?”

“Of course,” I lie, rising to my feet. Complaining to Nate isn’t my style. I wouldn’t want to ruin my Tough Girl cred. And he has enough to worry about rightnow.

He gives me a long look, and I try to smile. The man is observant as hell, and I don’t want him to know how scared I am. “Be well, Bec. Don’t try to do too much before the doctors say it’sokay.”

“All right. Ipromise.”

He gives me the world’s most awkward hug and then vanishes into the Brooklynafternoon.

2

Seven Years Earlier

New York, NY

Once upon a time,a fair maiden walks into an office tower in midtown Manhattan. She’s nervous, which is unlike her. But the stakes arehigh.

It’s a short trip up to the fourth floor, so she doesn’t have much time to panic. She’s dressed for the job interview in an itchy wool suit. Her hair is swept up in a tidy bun. She sees her corporate alter ego reflected in the elevator’s steeldoors.

Two months ago she’d been a mostly-happy college student, studying English literature. But then came a phone call from home. Her father had died suddenly of a heart attack. There was no life insurance, and his business was deeply indebt.

Rebecca had finished the college semester, but just barely. Shoring up her devastated mom and teenaged sister had beentaxing.

Now it was January, and she was officially a college dropout, on the hunt for ajob.

Rebecca’s palms feel clammy as the elevator doors part into a narrow, poorly lit corridor. This isn’t the shiny corporate environment she’d been expecting. But, hey—if this company has a job opening with a real paycheck, she can’t afford to nitpick thedecor.

She finds suite 402 easily enough. There’s a sign for Kattenberger Technologies mounted beside the door. But it’s made entirely of—wait for it—Legobricks.

Rebecca smiles for the first time in a week. Then she opens thedoor.

Inside, the office is just one big room. There aren’t even cubicles—just desks pushed against the walls and abutting each other in the center of the room. One third of the space has been allocated to a beat-up Ping-Pong table with a prominent gash in its surface. Two skinny guys in jeans and T-shirts are engaged in a feisty 10:30 a.m.championship.

There are three other men in the room, all tapping furiously on computer keyboards. They seem oblivious to the heated Ping-Pong game and also toRebecca.

Tap-pop, tap-pop, tap-pop goes theball.

Rebecca’s gaze travels the office, taking in the hockey poster taped up on one wall. The opposite wall is blue, with three speech bubbles painted on it. The quotes on them are odd, though. One actually says:Nate bit aTibetan.

That one is unsettling, since she’s here to meet someone named Nate Kattenberger. Maybe it’s lucky she’s notTibetan?

Another quote reads:Never odd or even. Maybe it’s a coding thing? Kattenberger Technologies is a software company. At least that’s what her father’s old friend Harry had said when he recommended her for the job. Harry is this building’s facilities manager, and he set Rebecca up with this interview as afavor.

She stands by the door, hoping someone will notice her arrival. But no heads turn away from those giant monitors. The computer equipment is the only thing in the room that looks new or valuable. Everything else looks secondhand. This is either a very new company or a poorly performingone.

Please let it be the first thing, she begs the universe. Not that the universe listens to herlately.

The world’s longest Ping-Pong volley ends suddenly when the ball hits the gash in the table and bounces erratically off the forehead of one of theplayers.

“Fuck!” hecries.

“Switch!” the other player calls, laughing. Each man walks in a counter-clockwise fashion around the table, the maneuver so smooth that they must do it fifty times aday.