Deep looked at her with a joke in her eyes. “Don’t mention it. It seems weird, but I’m not ready to give up on Technocore yet. Tim and I knew each other a bit in college. I majored in fashion and happened to be good with design. He took a chance on me as a front-end developer. Who else would have given me a shot in tech with my résumé?” She sighed, looking out the window, then back at Dylan again. “I was about to call it quits when you rolled in. You seemed tougher than the other consultants, so I thought I’d give you a chance.”
“I don’t know that I’m tougher, but I’m glad you stayed. This would suck without you.” Dylan laughed, switching off the car. “Let’s grab a bite and see what program Tim has in store for us.”
“I’m excited about the food part. Tim’s program, not so much.”
Giggling, they made their way back toward the taxidermized palace. As Dylan reached for the door handle, the smell of bleach and something altogether unpleasant hit her. Looking around the room, she could see adults stuffed into lunchroom tables that reminded her of the second grade, while the line for food wrapped around the room.
“I have an energy bar in my purse. Maybe I’ll eat that,” Deep whispered, eyeing a yellowish substance on someone’s plate. “Do you think that is mac and cheese or pureed squash?”
“Does squash come in that color?” Brandt asked as he passed them, heading toward a table under a dusty black bear.
Wrinkling her nose at her friends, Dylan followed Brandt toward the table. Settling in, she relaxed as Brandt and the other interns began to grill Deep about some TV show all of them were following. Apparently, Deep had taken the unpopular stance that this season’s villain was the best character in the show’s history, upsetting nearly every other fan at the table. Dylan hadn’t seen the show, but she did her best to needle her friend while taking in the feel of the room. Sure, the food looked marginally inedible, but people seemed to be having a good time. She was about to jump up and grab cookies for the table when Tim started making his way to the newly acquired PA system.
“Good evening. I hope everyone has settled in nicely.” Tim’s voice carried over the hall, instantly quieting everyone down. “I know today has been a busy one, so I won’t let this run too late. I thought that for tonight’s prime-time session we could all use some inspiration, so I wanted to talk about why I started Technocore. Like many companies before it, Technocore started with an idea.”
“Oh God.” An intern with short curly hair sitting next to Brandt slumped. She waited a beat, then got up and wandered toward the cookies, her face lit by the aggressive glow of a cell phone that had appeared faster than anyone could blink.
Tim started into his childhood, which sounded more mundane than he seemed to think it was. He clearly envisioned this as his own inspirational TED Talk. Unfortunately, Dylan didn’t find him nearly as interesting as the talk done by the biochemist turned radical nun or that kid who’d figured out how to print new computers using a paper clip and some recycled shoes. Looking around the room, she saw that René from sales had put his head on the table and fallen asleep, and the guy next to him was about fifteen seconds from unintentionally joining him.
“No one is watching,” Dylan said under her breath.
“That’s not true,” Brandt whispered back, nodding at the giant cross above Tim’s head. “God is always watching. And in case he gets bored, the animals are watching too.” Brandt snickered into his Styrofoam cup.
“Stop it,” Dylan said, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a grin as the curly-haired intern returned with a plate full of cookies. As Tim droned, she lost track of how many stay-awake cookies she ate, as well as the number of times René woke himself up snoring.
“So that is the true meaning of what we’ve done here. And what Technocore really means to the world. Thank you for being a part of that. Have a great night, and let’s do some inventive thinking tomorrow!” Tim said, then paused for thunderous applause. Instead, he received a polite smattering of claps mingled with the grunts and scratches of people trying to free themselves from the cafeteria benches.
Dylan cataloged as many employee responses as possible. She always felt that specific feedback was particularly helpful in instances of clueless failure. And this was nothing if not a spectacular failure to read the room. She took a full-body breath, trying to imagine the way she felt in yoga class. It almost worked, except for the part where her inhale smelled like burnt popcorn. Extracting herself from the table, she looked around the room to find Tim missing. She had to hand it to him; the guy knew how to exit the scene of a catastrophe.
“You won’t get out of feedback so easily,” Dylan whispered to herself, making her way toward Joe, who was still holding his precious bullhorn and a stack of maps.
“Hi, Joe. Any chance you know which cabin Tim is in?”
Joe eyed her with an impressive display of nausea and suspicion. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because I’m an ax murderer, Joe,” Dylan said, before she could stop herself. Gritting her teeth as Joe took a small step back, she added, “I want to give him feedback on tonight’s session, and as you can see, he is gone.”
Joe’s frame relaxed. “He does need feedback,” he said, nodding his head aggressively. “Cabin twenty-three. Medic’s hut. Need a map?”
“I know where it is. Have a good one,” Dylan said over her shoulder before making the short walk to the hut across the way. Of course this schmuck was staying in the medic’s cabin. It was a single with a private bathroom.
Dylan let her fist hit the door with more force than was strictly necessary, hoping the act would warm up her fingers.
“Who is it?” Tim’s voice called from the other side.
“Dylan. Thought we should go over some feedback from today,” she said, beginning to do the it’s-cold stomp on his doorstep. The latch popped, and Tim cracked the door open and stood aside to let her in. “Thank you,” she said, gliding into the warm cabin and rubbing her hands together.
Dylan’s eyes darted around the room, looking for the animal heads that had come to be the hallmark of her time at the campground, and was pleasantly surprised to find there were none. Instead, the cabin sported the rustic shellacked wood one expected to see in a medical hut. Glancing at the miniature waiting room, she spotted the faux-leather pea-green chairs and ancient Highlights magazines that had lived on the coffee table of every medical office since New Edition had topped the charts. Looking at a medicine cabinet with a carved red cross hanging over it, Dylan spotted packaging. Squinting at the lettering, she made out the most insulting words she’d seen all day: 1,800 thread count Egyptian cotton.
“Seriously, dude?”
“What?” Tim asked, nervously glancing around the room.
“You got yourself fancy, high–thread count sheets when everyone else is trying to squeeze into Doc McStuffins sleeping bags. Even your CFO is sharing a cabin,” she said, gesturing to the sheets before crossing her arms. “And where is the actual doctor?”
Tim toed the carpet with his sneaker, working up to an acceptable explanation. “It’s technically a nurse’s cabin. And since we didn’t bring medical staff, I figured—”
“There’s no medical staff here for an emergency?” Dylan didn’t care if she sounded shrill. They were forty-five minutes up a mountain. Someone was bound to twist an ankle. Shaking her head, she said, “Actually, don’t answer that. We have bigger problems, believe it or not.”
“Look. I know I botched today.”
“Not sure that is a strong enough word.”
Tim glowered at her for a moment, then exhaled, his shoulders sagging. “I sort of ran out of time to execute my vision. And I couldn’t have my slides or the sound effects without Wi-Fi. I was off my game.”
“Sound effects would not have helped. Trust me.” Dylan shifted from one foot to the other, letting her irritation loose. “Level with me, because we are both one more bad idea away from losing our jobs. Do you actually have a plan, or was this
whole thing put together all higgledy-piggledy?”
“Higgledy-piggledy?” Tim said, eyeing her with humor.
“You know exactly what higgledy-piggledy means.”
“Did you notice I gave everyone credit in my speech like you suggested?” Tim said, his voice rising an octave. When the diversion didn’t work, he caved. “No, I obviously don’t have a plan.”
Dylan arched an eyebrow at him and took a deep breath. “I know you brought some fancy gadget to write with. Go get it.”
Tim turned his back on her to find something to take notes with. As he rifled through his bag, he said, “I know everyone thinks I’m a joke. But I made a great company with an excellent product. If people would recognize how good Technocore is at cybersecurity, they’d leave me alone and let me do what I do. I just want a chance to do this my way. I don’t want to be like all the other founders who sell out or get fired ’cause they can’t hack it at their own company.”
Dylan understood this on a gut level. In an industry where so few founders became leaders, it was natural for Tim to want to do things his way. It was the curse of tech success, and in a weird way, it had begun haunting Tim the moment he’d started hacking.
“If only we lived in that world, but your reputation matters as much as the product.” Dylan sighed, settling herself into a waiting chair and switching back into problem-solving mode. “Next time you have an idea, ask yourself, A: Is this moving the company forward technologically? B: Will this crush anyone’s soul? And C: Am I acting like that CEO from the ride-sharing company who got fired for being an asshole?”
“I met him, and he wasn’t great in real life,” Tim said, coming back with a shockingly plain yellow notepad.
“For now, let’s use him as your behavioral baseline. If you can see him doing something, please don’t do it.”
“That is a low bar.”
“Well, do better and we can raise it. Assuming we still have jobs,” Dylan said, shrugging. “Now, list what sucks.”
“Like, in the world?” Tim asked, looking oddly scandalized for a grown man.
“No. At this campground. And put food at the top.”
Tim nodded. “Also, the coffee . . . and no Wi-Fi.”
“Activities. Oh, don’t look at me like that.” Dylan shrugged off Tim’s hurt glance.
“People management. Too many people going one place, so we shuffle everywhere.”
“Let’s call that congestion. What else?”
“The decor,” Tim said, leaning forward and getting into the exercise. “The animals are always watching.”
“Write it down!” After Tim had finished scrawling animal heads on the paper, she asked, “Anything else you can think of?”
“Outside of there not being a bar? No.”
“Well, write down a bar. Then we can get going.”
Tim stared at the notepad, hesitating. “It’s a long list.”
“More importantly, it is a list that we can pay to fix.”
“I don’t think we can get someone out here to take the heads off the walls that fast,” Tim said gently, as if he might hurt her feelings with the truth.
“Oh no, the heads are staying, but where we spend our time can change. For example, we can add more campfires and hikes to the program.”
“You are good at making lists,” Tim said, looking at her with something that bordered on respect.
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Dylan answered, rolling her neck from side to side.
Passing her the yellow notepad, Tim asked, “So what happens next?”
Standing up to stretch her arms out wide, Dylan felt like she was getting ready for a race and not a long night of fixing things. Massaging her left shoulder, she said, “I’m gonna need your credit cards.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dylan stared down at the tube of Icy Hot, then smiled back at herself in the mirror. Her hair had managed to curl over the course of the corporate retreat from almost H-E double hockey sticks. Instinctively, she tried to reach up to arrange it. Wincing, she lowered her arm and squeezed a large amount of the not-so-pleasant-smelling gunk on her hand, then slowly tried to apply it to the dead center of her back. The ropes course was finally catching up with her body, and it was clear that while she might have the technical skills to climb, the muscles required were in serious need of some attention.
She was proud of the way the retreat had turned out. After a night of pounding on doors, begging caterers, and bribing several store clerks to open early, she had arguably one of the better saves in her career. By the time the second day had started, she had a continental breakfast catered. Brandt spent the night polling people’s special skills and found an employee who was a yoga instructor in his free time to lead a few sessions. Someone else had worked as a children’s camp counselor and managed to make up arts and crafts for those grown-ups who wanted a break from the outdoors. Deep even agreed to revisit her childhood trauma and lead a sort of botanical hike for groups. At the end of the rib eye dinner, everyone had been working on their friendship bracelets and smiling through Moana movie night, complete with spiked hot chocolate and cookies.
Changing how she approached the sore spot on her back, Dylan thought about how to report on the more substantive parts of the retreat. Jared had left a number of panicky messages for her and would be less than impressed with her revived interest in the high-ropes course. Tim and a few of the senior leaders had done some brainstorming around departmental issues, including how best to use the newly created staff-appreciation committee. She just hoped that was enough.
“Dyl, you gonna be ready soon?” Neale’s voice floated up the stairs.
“Probably gonna need another fifteen minutes,” she said, shaking her head and pulling on her shirt before lowering herself onto the bathtub ledge to put on flat shoes. Somehow, she’d let Stacy talk her into going to another townie bar down the street.
Gritting her teeth, she used the top of the toilet tank to push herself up, marveling at the indignity of her situation. Glancing in the mirror, she looked at her hair more closely. She hadn’t intentionally worn her hair natural since she’d realized there was a way to control it. But in this light, the curls didn’t seem like a bad thing. Sure, they were all over her head, but wasn’t that what hair did? It worked for Neale. Not that she was a great barometer of social norms. Still. Dylan paused.
She’d started pressing her hair in middle school, a pit of hell that killed off any girl’s need to stand out real quick. After a while, pressing her hair was a part of her morning routine. Something she did on autopilot. And, of course, Nicolas liked her hair straight, which had mattered at the time. But she wasn’t sure she liked maintaining it every day anymore.
She’d let go of glitter dusters after middle school. Why couldn’t she let go of this too? Taking a deep breath, she unplugged the straightener with unexpected speed, preempting her internal tug-of-war before it could get started.
“Finally,” Neale hollered from the living room, clearly listening for Dylan’s slow shuffle down the stairs.
“I can’t believe Stacy talked me into this,” Dylan said, muscles hissing as she leaned heavily on the banister to support her jerky hop from one foot to the next. “And what is the rush? The place is two feet away.”
“Martini Sunday,” Neale said breezily before looking up. “Oh, is that your natural texture I see?”
“That place has a martini special every night of the week. And I don’t have time for the straightener and your beloved martinis in my current state.”
“And to think Billie said you were too uptight to stop pressing your hair.”
“Billie should know better than to bet against me.”
“I guess she owes me money.” Neale smirked, fishing around in the stack of coats by the door. Finding one of Dylan’s, she put it on with a dissatisfied sniff.
“That’s mine.”
“No wonder it’s so dull.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Neale didn’t move to take off the coat, so Dylan began rummaging around for another one. “Climbing is a serious workout. I’ve never been so sore.”
“Who even are you? Curly hair. Climbing things . . .”
“Shut up. Do you have your wallet? Or were you gonna use mine too?”
Neale shrugged and reached for the door. “I’m just saying, for a retreat that almost went up in preserved-animal flames, it sure seems to have made you a new woman. Or turned you back into the old one. I’m not sure which yet.”
Letting out an exasperated sigh, Dylan walked through the door. “My grand transformation will never be at the hands of Tim Gunderson. Let’s go.”
“Definitely back into the old one,” Neale said, grinning.
Smells like mistakes, Dylan thought as the heavy door closed behind her with a whoosh of cold air. The Brick Heart was around the corner from Lenny’s, but it might as well have been the same place, down to a woman who looked suspiciously like Mrs. Claus working the door. The bar was primarily lit by neon signs advertising different beers, some of which had stopped being available to the public sometime in the early nineties. The cracked vinyl of black booths duct-taped together seemed to be a major feature of the decor. The sticky floors, however, were unintentional. Or at least Dylan thought they were. Glancing up, she noticed Stacy waving at them from a booth close to one of the windows, the red light from the neon above her head giving her hair a pink tinge.
“Come on, Neale,” Dylan said, looping her arm through her sister’s and pulling her toward the table.
“Hey, Delacroix. I was starting to wonder where you all were,” Stacy called, scooting farther into the booth to make room for Neale and eyeing Dylan as she carefully lowered herself across from them, trying not to howl in pain on the way down. “What happened to you?”
“Long story. It involved taxidermy and a ropes course. I need a drink before I tell it,” Dylan chuckled.
“Well, the good news is, we can fix that. And drinks are half-off. Although, Dylan, these are not the gold-laced martinis you tried to order at Lenny’s,” Stacy said, waiting for Neale to exit the booth before pushing herself off the sticky seat and landing on the floor with a bounce.
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