Casey hastened through the lobby. The receptionist flashed him a smile, waving him through, and he made straight for an elevator.

He found it blessedly empty as it arrived and opened, and he was alone as he rode up. Casey checked his watch--he was on time. Then his phone--two messages from Lauren, he'd read them later. Finally he checked his hair, his breath, and uncharacteristically his nails--all fine.

When the elevator opened on his floor, Casey made his way to the secretary and introduced himself.

“Good morning!” she said. “Mr. Owens will be in shortly.” She pointed him to his office to sit down.

“Thank you,” Casey said, heading there. His new boss’s office. He looked around, frowning inwardly at the barren desk and walls. There were no picture frames on his desk, and the furniture looked like it was chosen out of a catalogue. It was a nice office all the same, windowed with a view of the city.

Owens walked in a few minutes later, going round to his desk to drop a stack of folders, then glancing at his phone, then up at Casey. Casey gave him a nervous smile, and he smiled politely back. “Hello. Casey, right?” He outstretched his arm, and Casey stood, a little too quickly, to shake it.

“Yes sir, Mr. Owens, go--”

“Please, call me Taylor.” Taylor’s expression returned to neutral. “You'll have to excuse my tardiness, I was occupied with a business call on my way in. Is this your first time to Driscoll Industries?”

Casey smiled a little more confidently now. “No, sir. I attended Wilson Academy in elementary, and we had a field trip here in the fifth grade. ‘Driscoll sponsors alternatives to the Bav--’”

“‘--to the Bavarian model of schooling, encouraging bright youngsters to pursue apprenticeships.’ I know that pamphlet. They poached me from Wilson in the seventh grade.” Taylor smiled again, but to Casey it appeared forced. Bad memories? “I’m sure all of this appeared on your application to this position, but to be honest, the whole thing was handled by my secretary. I haven't got the time. Which is what you're here for, incidentally.” He sat down now, and Casey did too. “Today is mostly meetings, but--well, I’ll have Heather share my schedule with you--you’ll be sitting in on them in the near future, but for now we’ve got to get you oriented.”

Taylor unpiled the folders he’d dropped earlier, picking out two and sliding them across to Casey. His expression shifted again to professionally neutral. “These are allocations I did last night. Look over the numbers for me.” He paged his secretary. “Heather, can you get Casey situated in here?”

“Working late last night?” Casey ventured, eyeing the fat folder.

“Everybody makes mistakes,” Taylor replied noncommittally, and Casey regretted the attempt at small talk.

Collecting the other folders now, Taylor stood to leave. “I’m sorry we couldn’t talk longer, but I’m sure we’ll have opportunities later. I’ll see you this afternoon.” Casey nodded, and Taylor walked out. He's polite, but he doesn't seem sincere about it. He doesn't seem enthused about getting an apprentice either. Is he regretting it already? Casey was sure he hadn't made a bad impression, but perhaps okay wasn't good enough.

His brooding was interrupted when Taylor’s secretary--Heather, evidently--entered. Casey stood to shake her hand, and she led him to the back corner of the office, where there was a second desk. “You'll be here. I’ve stocked it with supplies already, but you’re welcome to bring in whatever you want. Subject to Mr. Owens’ approval, of course; it’s his office.”

“Remind me, how long will I be sharing?” Casey asked.

“You’ll be assuming the junior VP position in about a year and a half,” Heather said. “From there you’ll have your own office and workload, and Mr. Owens will be a little more hands off. You’ll still be working together, of course.”

“Thanks,” Casey said. He sat down, opening the folder to begin his first assignment.

---

Casey slid into his usual seat at Starbucks, setting down drinks for Lauren and himself. She was his best friend from college, and about to finish her master’s in psychology.

“Hey,” she said, taking the coffee. “So how’s the first day?”

Casey shrugged, casting his eyes out the window. “Fine, I guess. He doesn’t seem that happy about having me there, and I didn’t see him much, but he’s polite, and he’s got me working immediately.”

Lauren hummed as she sipped her mocha. “What do you gather about him from his office?”

“No picture frames or anything,” Casey said, “you were right. I tried prodding him once about work-life balance, but I didn’t get anything conclusive.”

Her eyes lit up when he said she was right. “I told you. That’s what I told you. Did you make any smalltalk? What’s he like to talk about?”

Casey shook his head. “Sorry.”

Setting down her drink, Lauren pursed her lips and took a regal pose. “I suppose you want to know the reason for my predictions.”

“Yeah,” he said, ignoring her usual melodrama, “I don’t get it. So maybe he’s a workaholic. Aren’t there a million of them?”

Lauren smiled now. “No, Casey, there aren’t. Not like him, anyway. Bigshot CEOs, VPs, I mean they all do work 80 hour weeks, but the popular idea of them is wrong. They fill up every second of their after hours too. They have big hobbies and ambitious goals, like running a marathon or writing novels on the side. Workaholics aren’t addicted to their workplace, they’re addicted to doing things.”

“Is that a liter--”

She waved her hand. “I’m being imprecise, it’s not really an addiction. The point is, Taylor Owens is not the type. He’s something special. And I think it has to do with Driscoll.”

Casey frowned, thinking through it. “You’re saying their apprenticeship model is why he works so much.”

“Not exactly. I think it’s how Driscoll got a guy like Owens who doesn’t fit the mold.”

“What? That doesn’t make an--”

Lauren cut him off again. “It’s a selection effect. There are people in other jobs who work long hours, and they aren’t the CEO type. Nurses, for instance. They’re nothing like the 25-year-old startup founder who learns Russian in his free time just so he can backpack across Siberia.”

“Did one really do that?” Casey asked skeptically.

“No, but that’s not the point. Typical companies, they use a whole different approach to hiring and advancement. Like, schooling requirements alone change everything. How many apprenticed execs at Driscoll do you suppose had a liberal arts undergrad?”

“None?”

“Exactly. Because who needs an undergrad when you were getting trained at 13?”

“So you’re saying in another life, Taylor Owens was just a nurse at 26 rather than a VP?”

Lauren gave him a look and shook her head. “You’re making fun of me. No, I don’t know how inborn the effect is. Maybe if he’d continued at school full-time he’d have been a VP at some other company. Or a doctor, or a high-powered lawyer."

“How do you know all that about Taylor anyway?” Casey asked. “You haven’t met him, have you?”

“I’ve done my research,” Lauren said defensively. “It’s part of my thesis, studying how Driscoll’s apprenticeships work. And Owens is an great case study: he started at only eleven and transitioned to full-time at high school age. Not friggin’ twenties like you. And he supervised my parents’ team early on, before he assumed the VP role; they told me a lot about him.” Lauren paused. “I’m getting off track, though. The effect of apprenticeship that really interests me is the networking, or really, the lack of it.”

Casey furrowed his brow. “Shouldn’t it be more important in an apprenticeship than at a regular company?”

“No. At least, with Driscoll in particular, your primary relationship is with your mentor, who’s usually your direct boss too. You advance as far as he advances, generally, and there’s not a lot of shuffling around.”

“Right, I know that. It’s why you recommended I go for the toughest position available.”

“No it’s not, Casey.” Lauren looked around now, and leaned in, speaking more softly. “I told you to go for Owens’ not because you’re an outstandingly qualified candidate, or because you’re my friend and I want the best for you.”

“Because those would be terrible reasons!” he interrupted.

“Shut up, Casey, this is serious. I wanted you there because I’m concerned about Owens. He's Driscoll’s own apprentice. Barring a sudden death or coup, he’ll be taking over one day. But I--well, I don’t think he’s stable.”

“Not stable?” Casey whispered incredulously. “Where the he--” He stopped himself this time, thinking back to Lauren’s predictions, and the reason for them dawned on him. “Oh God, you think he’s, that he’s isolated or something. That his mentor’s the only person in his life.”

Lauren nodded, and Casey could see real concern in her eyes now. “He kept to himself when he managed my parents, and that was three years ago. By your account, he’s still the same. What happens to my folks when he takes over fifteen years from now and loses it? Their retirement is all in Driscoll stock.” She leaned back, taking a sip of her coffee again as she collected her thoughts. “I bet he took on an apprentice because he had to. Maybe he was putting it off--I don’t remember company policy exactly--but having mentees would be good for him, and he hasn’t had any. He needs that support. He probably needed that support a long time ago, and who knows how long he can continue like this.

“I’m asking you to save him, Casey.”

---

Casey tried at first not to let Lauren’s theory about Taylor color his work behavior, but his curiosity soon overwhelmed him. He knew it wasn’t fair to conclude such things about Taylor on so little evidence--maybe he’s just a very private person?--but Casey was finding it more and more plausible.

“Did you have a good weekend?” he asked the Monday of his second week as Taylor cruised in, dropping another pile folders onto his desk and sitting down.

“I got a lot of work done,” Taylor answered, and Casey inwardly despaired.

“I went out with my friend Lauren on Saturday, she, uh, wanted to try this new Thai place on Sixth Street,” Casey volunteered.

Taylor glanced up at him, blinked once. “That sounds nice,” he finally said.

Casey couldn’t read his expression, but he took it as a cue to continue. “Yeah, I’m a big fan of Pad Thai, but so few places do it right. It’s kind of--it’s like, if they got that right, then I can trust them to cook Thai in general. And they did, so I can. And my friend, she got green curry chicken, which is really good but really hot--well, all Thai food is hot, but this dish especially--” Casey stopped when he realized he was rambling, but Taylor only nodded.

“Do they do takeout?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“Takeout. Or can you only dine in?”

“Oh, I, uh--I think they do?” Casey stammered. “We dined in.”

Taylor looked back down at his work. “Perhaps we’ll get lunch from there sometime.”

Casey turned back to his work, double checking next month’s budget proposal, but a smile crept to his face.



Resolving to get a second opinion, he caught Heather later at the break room. “Hey,” Casey asked, “do you have a moment?”

“What do you need?” Heather said, setting down her coffee mug.

“I don’t need anything, I just--” Casey began. “Is Taylor always so… stiff? Polite?”

Heather bit her lip. “Mr. Owens is always formal here, yes. But we don’t interact outside of work hours, so beyond that I can’t say.”

“Do you know anyone who would? Friends?” Casey pressed.

“Not that I’m aware of….” Heather’s brow furrowed in concern. “Sorry, that’s not what I mean. He’s very busy, so he doesn’t fraternize much with colleagues.” Heather gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m sure you’re concerned as his apprentice. The truth is, this is the first time Mr. Owens has taken one on, and he’ll need time to feel out the relationship.”

Another of Lauren’s predictions confirmed--he really was the first. Casey felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Is there anything I should be doing?” Casey asked.

“It’s pretty intimidating, huh?” Heather said. “When I first started working for him, three years ago, I felt the same way. Now, I can’t say we’ve really grown any closer--Mr. Owens keeps very much to himself. But I am only a secretary. My mentor is actually Karen Wilder, President Driscoll’s personal assistant.”

“But you are close with her, though?” Casey asked.

“Of course, we’ve known each other for nine years!” Heather said. “Look, Casey, I’m sure you’ve got nothing to worry about. This is your second week, after all. But if you want to get to know him, why not ask him somewhere after work? He’s not so busy that he can’t take time out for his apprenticeship.”

Casey nodded. “Thank you, Heather. This has been really helpful,” he said, leaving the break room.



As the day wound to a close, Casey looked up to find Taylor hovering, his face again unreadable.

“I’ve just finished preparing that report; I’ve emailed it to you,” Casey said. “You said I’ll be sitting in on the budget meeting tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Taylor said, “but I’m here for something else. My secretary has just added a 6:30 meeting with you at Brick Oven.”

Casey blanched. “I--th-that’s odd,” he stuttered.

Taylor smiled, and for the first time it looked sincere. “It’s okay. I know I’ve been a little negligent. Why don’t we leave now so we can get a table?”

Casey agreed, and soon they were in Taylor’s car. He noticed as they rode that he wasn’t the only nervous one here--according to Heather, Taylor never did this sort of thing. He reflected that perhaps Taylor’s stiffness here was as much to do with that.

They arrived at Brick Oven and got a good table, Casey sitting across from Taylor. Pizza was not really his thing, but he ordered a Greek balsamic one.

“It’s a misnomer, you know,” Taylor observed as they handed their menus to the waiter.

“What is?” Casey said.

“Greek pizza here. If it were really Greek pizza, it would be cooked in a pan, but they don’t serve pan pizzas here. They really just call it that because of the feta and balsamic. Not that I’m complaining; it’s still very good.”

Casey hummed. “You like this place, then?”

“Yeah,” Taylor said. “I used to come here wi--when I was little. And I took Heather here when she started for me.”

Casey nodded, but he wasn’t sure how to proceed. Was asking about when he was little off limits? It was awfully direct, and he seemed uncomfortable last week when their alma mater was mentioned. On the other hand, Taylor brought it up himself….

“I think I came here once with my parents,” Casey said. “I must have been nine or ten. My mom is a foodie--her and dad wanted to visit every restaurant in the city at least once.”

Taylor visibly clammed up when Casey mentioned his parents. Shit, he thought, flushing a bit.

They were silent a long while, Casey studying the art, Taylor the tablecloth. Drinks and appetizers were brought along.

“I… don’t really know how to do this,” Taylor finally broke in. He was gesticulating with a bit of garlic bread in hand. “Apprenticing, that is. The art of it, beyond just teaching them the trade. I read books about it, but they’re all about kids, really. Go to all their ball games. Make sure they aren’t skipping classes--for all that matters, for a student who’s only part time, of course.”

“I’m an unusual case, being your age?” Casey guessed.

“Exactly,” Taylor said. “The whole thing makes so much sense when you’re learning and taking orders from someone twenty or thirty years older than you, who’s been doing it his whole life. Less so when they’re a year or two older than you.”

“Well,” Casey pointed out, “you have been doing this your whole life, though.”

Taylor nodded. “Most of it.” He considered it a moment. “Yes, it’s not a perfect dichotomy. But you understand, anyway. I just don’t know what to--you know, what to do with you.”

Casey smiled reassuringly. “Let’s just be friends, okay?” he said. “Don’t think about it like a mentor-mentee relationship outside work. We’ll just hang out.”

Taylor assented, but judging by his eyes he was still bothered by something. Casey briefly wondered whether he knew what hanging out really meant.

The pizza soon arrived and misnomer or not, it was delicious. Taylor warmed up, injecting a bit of dry humor as Casey told stories from his college days. They left Brick Oven at 8:00--Casey’s plans for the evening had been thrown off entirely.

“Did you leave your car at Driscoll’s?” Taylor asked as they walked to his car. “I’ll give you a lift back.”

“Thanks, but I take the subway, actually,” Casey said. “I’ll be okay. See you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow,” Taylor agreed.



Casey found Lauren still at Starbucks. Her cup was empty, and she had a laptop out--she was probably working on her thesis.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he sat down.

“Sorry you’re late too,” she replied, deadpan.

He grinned sheepishly. “One time and I’m in the doghouse? What about that time last month you never showed?”

“I was recovering from the flu,” Lauren pointed out. “Where were you, anyway?”

“Out with Taylor,” he said, and she closed her laptop with an audible clunk.

“Tell me everything.”

Casey related his conversation with the secretary that morning and the dinner she set up for them. Lauren was smug at first that her prediction Taylor had never mentored before was right, but it soon transformed to pity.

“Poor kid,” she said.

“He’s not a kid, he’s older than us,” Casey said, shaking his head. “You’re making him out that way to justify your moral crusade.”

“He never had a childhood. He’s a kid to me,” she insisted. “And what are you complaining about my motives now? It’s not like you disagree that he’s in a bad place and needs help.”

Lauren was analytical to a fault, and her pride, Casey knew, made it hard for her to admit she’d been reaching. “It’s not like we know this stuff for certain, though,” Casey pressed. “Or that it’s any of our business, really, snooping around in Taylor’s life. He could be very private--”

“I never said I was certain,” Lauren snapped. “And again, you already believe me, so what’s with the excuses?” She packed her laptop into her bag and tossed her long forgotten mocha. “Like it or not, you accepted the position as his apprentice. It’s your business now, Casey.”

---

It was amazing what a little honesty and openness could do. Taylor was a looser with him in the office Tuesday, indeed the rest of the week. He rewarded Casey with a smile once in a while and had a spring in his step even for dreadfully boring project meetings. Lauren was right again, Casey thought, that having someone in his court was doing Taylor a lot of good.

The Friday of his third week, Taylor met him at the door as he was leaving. “Hey, are you doing anything tonight?” he asked.

“Um…” Casey began. “Yeah, I was going to go, uh, out tonight.”

“Could I come along?”

Casey bit his lip. He was planning to go clubbing, but that didn’t seem to him like Taylor’s scene. And he didn’t exactly want to admit that’s where he was going. “I was gonna check out this place on Ninth Street, Liquid, if… well, I’ll be there around eleven, why don’t you look the place up and just let me know later if you want to come?”

Taylor looked bewildered, but he agreed to and they parted. Casey flushed as he thought of where Taylor’s imagination would take him. God, I should have just told him it was a club. What was I thinking?

When he arrived at the nightclub he idled outside waiting for Taylor. After a few minutes, Taylor rounded the corner of the nearest parking garage, and to Casey’s surprise impeccably dressed for the occasion. Maybe he has done this before, Casey thought. He broke into a grin, and Taylor smiled back.

“Have you danced much?” Casey asked as the bouncer checked their IDs.

“I’ve danced,” he replied, an answer which did not inspire confidence.

It was still early, so the floor wasn’t too packed. Casey led Taylor--dragging him by the arm, practically--toward the center. They separated after a bit, but he kept an eye on Taylor from afar, who wasn’t doing half badly. Casey had to suppress a laugh when he realized Taylor was carefully copying someone nearby.

Casey soon had the attention of a pretty brunette and drew close, losing sight of his friend. The next few songs were a blur, and Casey was getting a good feeling about this. He asked her--mouthed it, really, over the music--if she wanted to grab a drink, but she was just then pulled away, by another girl her age who sized him up and shook her head at her friend.

Casey’s pride was wounded. He scanned the crowd for Taylor, and waved him over. They made for the bar.

“You know, I didn’t take you for this kind of thing,” Taylor said as the bartender handed him a glass.

“What’s that, clubbing?” Casey asked, setting down his water. Taylor nodded, and Casey just shrugged. “Yeah, I know I’m not the type. I like… losing myself in it.”

“How’s that?”

“I used to get anxiety pretty bad,” he explained. “Social anxiety, that is. I get self-conscious, worry over what my friends and family think of me, that stuff. I take meds for it now, and it’s a lot better, but it’s still nice to go someplace where I’m anonymous. There’s no real expectations at a place like this; you show up wearing the right thing and swaying and listen to some good music and that’s it, and… that’s fun.”

Taylor bit his lip at that, looking back at the dance floor. “You meet anyone?” Casey asked. He shook his head no. “You are having fun?” he pressed him.

Taylor smiled softly at him. “Yeah. It’s just new to me.”

“Clubbing?” Casey asked, for the second time.

“A place without expectations.” Taylor downed his drink at that and, grabbing Casey’s hand, pulled him back to the dance floor.



Casey opened Taylor’s door, following him in before Taylor collapsed into a sofa, hand to his head. “Goddammit,” Taylor swore.

“I’ll get you some water,” Casey offered, stepping in behind him. He looked around at the apartment as he entered. It was well-to-do but as bare as Taylor’s office, a closed entertainment center and sparse bookshelf the only things of interest.

Casey switched on the kitchen lights and opened the cupboard to find a glass. The first cupboard just had meds--and silently cursing himself, Casey took a look. Escitalopram, aripiprazole, and modafinil. He made a mental note to ask Lauren about those.

He found the cups and, filling one at the faucet, brought it to Taylor. “Finish it,” he ordered him. “It’ll help in the morning.”

“Shouldn’t have had so much,” Taylor said, still holding his head. When he downed the glass, he got up to pee.

Casey resisted the urge to explore the rest of Taylor’s apartment, feeling he’d snooped enough. When Taylor emerged from the bathroom, Casey said, “Message me in the morning, okay? Take care.”

Taylor nodded, looking bleary-eyed already. But as Casey made for the door, he said, “I… really appreciate this, Casey.”

“Of course. Good night, Taylor.”



Casey made his way out the apartment complex and started the walk home. He glanced back briefly toward downtown, the headquarters of Driscoll Industries gleaming among a dozen other such high rises, and irritation faintly stirred in him at the life-consuming toil that went on there.

Checking his phone, he found four texts from Lauren, two angry that they weren’t meeting for Starbucks that night and two asking when he’d be back at his apartment. He let her know he was on his way, and when he got there she was just arriving too.

He let her in, serving some hot chocolate. She sipped it and wrinkled her nose. “This is awful.”

“It’s Swiss Miss!” Casey protested. “If you don’t like that, you don’t like hot chocolate.”

“Ech. I need caffeine anyway.” Lauren was an inveterate night owl.

“How’s school?” he asked her.

“Same as fracking ever. I’d rather shoot myself than work on my thesis. But it will get done.”

“Is something bothering you, Lauren?” Casey rarely heard her this irritable.

She aimed a glare at him, or maybe through him. “Yes. I’ve been looking into Owens and Driscoll’s past, and I turned something up. Something I can’t believe I overlooked.”

“Does this have anything to do with your thesis?”

“It’s on corporate structure and socialization, so yes it goddamn does. Listen, Casey. Driscoll’s son died when he was only eleven. He was hanged.”

The color drained from Casey’s face. “Was hanged? Like by someone else, or…?”

“It was ruled a suicide, but no note was ever released, or explanation for why he would have done it, and Driscoll senior was insistent it was someone else. It wasn’t well reported on, though. This was fifteen years ago, the company wasn’t prominent like it is now.”

Casey had no words for that. He’d never heard of an eleven year old killing himself. What could cause a thing like that? Lauren pulled out her phone, showing him the articles she’d found--newspapers digitized by the university library. The second had a picture.

“What? That’s Taylor,” Casey said, baffled, and when Lauren shook her head, he grew even more somber. He stood up and headed to his room, returning soon with an old book. “My fifth grade yearbook,” Casey explained when he saw Lauren’s puzzled expression. “Taylor went to my school, two years ahead of me. This should have him from seventh grade, the same year he went part-time to start at Driscoll.”

Casey paged through it, finding, after a moment, Wilson Academy’s seventh grade class. And one Taylor Owens was the spitting image of Driscoll’s son.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “Driscoll worked his own son to death. And then he found a replacement.” Her eyes dull, Lauren nodded.

---

The news took the weekend to percolate through Casey, provoking one horrible realization after another. An “I’m alive” from Taylor Saturday morning: what had he even used that phone for, to chat with the man abusing him? Laundry on Saturday evening: Taylor hadn’t had just one healthy relationship in his life until now, he’d had zero, and Casey could scarcely believe he’d lasted as long as he had. Calling his parents Sunday morning: where the hell were Taylor’s? Did Driscoll cut them out of his life somehow, or had that been some tragedy all its own?

Casey headed to the grocery store Sunday evening, irritable and stewing over it all. He’d promised to host his parents for dinner one Sunday, but he’d sworn off doing it tonight. He was in no state of mind for it, knowing especially that they’d want to talk about his new job. Dad had been ecstatic he’d found a way into Driscoll’s--he was a market watcher who’d staked his own retirement on the company. Mom was not so sanguine about Casey leaving his MBA program for it, but had been harangued so thoroughly about the earnings potential that she’d acquiesced. His final realization struck him as he entered the store: what would happen to Taylor and him if all this were right and Taylor confronted Driscoll? Taylor could go anywhere with his skills, but it could cost Casey his career.

He gathered what he came for--he was out of flour, and he needed fresh garlic and bell peppers for chicken cacciatore, and he realized he was nearly out of eggs too, and he’d used the last of his milk on the hot chocolate Friday night…. Carrying it all to the register, he waited patiently, then impatiently, then furiously as the cashier dawdled at tedious length with the customers in front of him. The old man came finally to him, smiling genially and reaching out for his items. Casey dropped them abruptly on the his hand, regretting it rather less than he should have.

“Gah!” the cashier said, unsettling the milk jug as he pulled his hand free. “Is that any way to treat a person?”

“Is making me wait any way to treat a customer?” Casey snapped.

“You’ve got some nerve,” he said, wielding the cliché like a weapon. “It’s called basic human decency. Think of somebody else for a change, why don’t you.” He rang up his items with artificial speed, thrusting the bags at him.

Casey left in a huff, but the cashier’s words began to sink in, and he started to regret what he’d done--and to rethink that last realization. To hell with his career--Taylor deserved better, he vowed.



Casey was brooding anxiously as he exited the elevator at work Monday morning, but Heather stopped him as he passed her desk. “Good morning, Casey!” she said. “I’ve got some mail for you.” Passing him a few envelopes, she asked conversationally, “Have you just about figured Mr. Owens out?”

“Heather,” he said, hardly noticing the mail or the question, “does Taylor ever talk about his mentor?”

Heather’s smile grew strained. “Mr. Owens doesn’t talk about President Driscoll much, no. Since he moved out, the president has taken a very hands off approach with his apprentice. His present experience will be sufficient should he assume the role when the president retires.”

“Moved out of what? From home?”

“Yes, from President Driscoll’s home.”

“He lived there?” Casey asked incredulously. This was really too much.

She frowned now. “I’m not sure I should discuss Mr. Owens’ personal life, but--well, the fact is well known. President Driscoll adopted him soon after finding him at Wilson Academy, and he hasn’t had any contact with his birth family in years. Oh, that reminds me….”

Casey stopped listening, shuffling into his office and sitting down to process that. Lauren had mentioned none of that. What had Taylor been going through there? How long had he endured that, from eleven to eighteen? Or had he managed to get out at sixteen? The law allowed emancipation that early, Casey believed, but that involved the courts. Wouldn’t he have learned it already if that had happened?

Taylor entered just then, dropping a stuffed binder on his desk like every Monday and smiling at Casey. “I couldn’t get any work done Saturday, and I blame you,” he said good-naturedly. “So you’re just going to have to finish the quarterly I was going to do before the leadership meeting at 11:00.”

Casey suppressed his expression of horror and faced Taylor. “We need to talk.”

“I’m not budging about this, Casey,” he insisted, looking almost playful. “You’re supposed to decrease my workload, not increase it.”

“Stop, Taylor.” Casey stood and closed the door. “Why didn’t you tell me about Driscoll? What was he doing to you?”

The smile disappeared, granting Casey his first glimpse beneath the mask--the hurt, the vulnerability. “What are you talking about?” he said haltingly.

“Driscoll’s son, only son, committed suicide in 2006. He adopts you, same age, a carbon copy, a few months later. You become his apprentice, rise through the ranks, but you’re distant, closed off from everyone. Unhappy. Abused. Am I wrong?”

Taylor took a step backward, away from him and toward the window, storm clouds faintly visible there. Silhouetted by its light, he stood against the sky, taller than Casey, older, senior, but for all that he looked like nothing more than a frightened kid.

Taylor gulped, tried to speak, couldn’t. Casey drew closer, but he only stepped backwards again. “Taylor, please, I want to help. I want to. But you’ve got to let me.” Casey inwardly flinched--it all felt like cheap platitudes, but what else was he to do?

“I can’t--” Taylor blurted out, took a deep breath. “I can’t do this here, I--” He looked frantically around now--they were in closed office, but it only afforded so much privacy--let out an involuntary sob and buried his face in his hands. Casey made immediately for the glass panel by the door, drawing the blinds. He locked the door too.

He stepped tentatively toward Taylor again, who didn’t back up this time, but who was quickly losing all composure. “Taylor. I’m coming closer. Is that okay?” Taylor nodded, sobbing again now. Jesus.

Casey pulled him into a hug.



The two lay leaning against the wall, Taylor dabbing his eyes with one hand, Casey holding the other for moral support. Taylor could speak again.

“Driscoll never physically abused me. Not directly, anyway. He made known his expectations, and what would happen if I didn’t meet them--returning to my mom, or later, to foster care.” He paused. “That’s a whole story in itself, and we don’t need to go there,” Taylor said when Casey opened his mouth to ask. “And the expectations weren’t possible. Not ordinarily, anyway. He started offering me stimulants. Wakefulness drugs, like caffeine but without the side effects. The deadlines got tougher, and… it was the only way to keep up.

“I didn’t complain. How could I, being offered a chance like this?” Taylor waved his arm half-heartedly at the office. “There’s the glory of it, and the esteem. And those aren’t bad things.” He paused again, appearing to be thinking over his words. “And I found after a while that I could lose myself in my work. The way you lose yourself at the club, except the expectations are still there. It’s not the same, but it’s something.”

Casey grimaced. Physical abuse would have been noticed by the schools, but running yourself ragged not so much. At a place like Wilson, it was not uncommon either, a talk Casey’s parents had had with him early. But after middle school, for an apprentice, there was no recourse. Taylor had had no friends and no family to lean on. Speaking of….

“Why did you never take on an apprentice?” Casey asked. “It might have helped a lot, having someone around.”

“It would have. It did help, having you here the last few weeks,” Taylor admitted. “But it’s not that simple. Like I said, the work is an escape, too. I could have taken one on at eighteen. But having them around helping with the work, asking questions”--he looked at Casey as he said that part--“I couldn’t have faced that at the time. Or any time since, really. Leadership finally forced me to take one, it’s why I agreed to let Heather start searching.”

“And that’s the other thing. You’re… okay, with still working for him?”

Taylor shook his head. “Where would I go? Everything I know is this damn company.”

“Your skills are marketable, Taylor,” Casey said. “You have fifteen years’ experience in finance and management.” He squeezed his hand encouragingly.

He only looked dejectedly at Casey. “And throw away my career here?”

“What’s your alternative?”

A look a grim purpose crossed his face. “I’m still the heir apparent. I’d take over, and run the company into the ground. Show Driscoll what his legacy really is.”

“And throw away your career here?” Casey asked pointedly.

Taylor groaned, letting his head knock against the wall behind them. “Yeah, I know it doesn’t make any sense. I don’t think I could do it, really. But I sure want to get back at him for what he did for me. For what he did to his--his own son.”

“No, that’s reasonable,” Casey said, nodding solemnly. “You ought to want revenge. But don’t ruin yourself to do it.”

Taylor was silent a long time, but he finally agreed. “Fine. I know what I’ll do.” He released Casey’s hand, standing now and getting his phone out. “Looks like Heather canceled my meetings for the morning. She must have noticed the door was locked.”

“She cares about you, you know,” Casey began. “I think you’ve been awf--” He stopped when Taylor grabbed his arm. “What is it?”

Taylor looked up, the color drained now from his face. “Driscoll wants to meet you. This afternoon.”



Driscoll’s estate lay across the bay, opposite downtown--not a short drive, but Taylor was speeding through the soft rain, which put Casey on edge. And Taylor had not related what he planned to say to Driscoll, which put Casey all the more on edge.

They pulled in around lunchtime, the sky darkened by the storm clouds, and the guard at the door waved them in out of the rain with abbreviated fanfare. “Let me do the talking,” was all Taylor said as they passed into the foyer.

And John Driscoll, the magnate who’d revolutionized corporate structure and an industry with it, rounded the corner and set his eyes on them. He was still middle aged, his hair just graying, and he cut an imposing figure from forty feet away. “Good afternoon, Taylor, Mr. Fleming,” he said, his stentorian voice sounding across the foyer. Casey flinched and glanced toward Taylor, whose face bore only cold determination now.

“John,” Taylor said.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fleming. May I call you Casey? And Taylor, it’s been so long.”

Driscoll began to stroll down the long hallway to them at a relaxed pace, his eyes fixed on Taylor, but he stopped when Taylor put his hand up. “Don’t come any closer,” he said. “Don’t ever come any closer.”

“Who is the master and who the apprentice?” Driscoll asked. “I know who the master of this house is, anyway.” And Driscoll began to approach once more.

Casey could hardly believe his ears. This guy talks like a supervillain. This was make believe; he couldn’t be real.

Taylor’s face spasmed when he heard Driscoll’s reply. “I’m not your apprentice anymore, you son of a bitch.” Casey put his hand on Taylor’s shoulder, squeezed, and he felt some of the tension leave it, Taylor composing himself again. “I’m here to say it’s over. I’m leaving for good.”

“After all I’ve done for you? Fed you, clothed you, trained you,” Driscoll continued. “You want to throw all that away?”

“After all you’ve done to me,” Taylor corrected him.

Still approaching, Driscoll smiled his supervillain smile, and Casey shuddered. “Where are you going to go? To whom shall you run? Taylor, there’s no one. Is Mr. Fleming going to save you?” Driscoll’s eyes leveled on him. “He’s quaking in his boots.”

Casey made to step forward, but Taylor put his arm out to stop him. “He already has. I’m suing you for the abuse. The sleepless, hungry nights. The drugs you plied me with when I couldn’t keep up. I’m taking every cent, John, and I’m walking. And to hell with the company.”

With each word Taylor chipped at Driscoll’s smile. He slowed, stopped, grave now. “Is that how this is going to go, Taylor? Litigation?”

Taylor spat, “Would you rather another son dead?”

Driscoll stared a long time at Taylor’s face before answering, “Yes.”

“Children,” he said contemptuously as he turned and walked back. “They only disappoint you in the end.”



Taylor took Casey’s hand again, pulling him toward the door. They stepped outside, into the ebbing rain, and over the gentle hills of the estate they came to the water’s edge. Taylor stooped to sit, Casey following suit. Mist and faint petrichor hung in the air, and across the bay lay the summits of human industry. They were edifices built of millions of man-hours, whole lives sacrificed by the thousand for modernity. To Casey they looked now like tombstones.