The cabins of the elevators at TCorp hadn't changed in the few weeks of my absence, since that day when Ed had trapped us in one of them and taken us to the basement, to –3. The number glared at me from its button. I touched it and traced its elevated contours with a finger, trying to establish if this was reality or fiction.

Hell was but a pushed button away.

A woman in office wear entered the cabin, and I quickly moved my hand up to select Top Floor

She pressed a button below it.

We ascended in silence while she inspected me from the corner of her eyes, probably wondering what kind of business might take a woman in jeans and a washed-out Meat Loaf t-shirt to Top Floor.

The t-shirt was my mother's. She'd given me a share of her old clothes.

No, I hadn't moved in with her, but I had seen her a couple of times over the last weeks. We had come to terms with each other, kind of—and that felt good.

The woman at my side was still ogling me.

I faced her, curious. High-resolution makeup, expensive hair, ironed blouse, pencil skirt, high heels—a corporate being dressed for success, laboring to win her place among the executives.

She blushed, took out her phone and unlocked it.

She swiped photographs over the screen. They were of people and penguins in an icy landscape—smudges of black and color against white, the jerky dance of her thumb leaving no time to take in the details.

Antarctica—the last frontier. Thierry would have liked it there.

The cabin stopped, its door opened, and she escaped with a staccato of heels punching their trail into the floor.

Unreal.

I spent the last leg of my journey in solitude. The elevator opened onto the expanse of anthracite carpet stretching away from me along the corridor.

I had planned not to be intimidated, but seeing this place brought back memories, and with them came the accountant's instinctive awe of the powers that dwelled here.

Gritting my teeth, I forced my hesitant feet into motion. The time for awe was over.

Thierry's office was behind one of the doors on the left side. I read the names on their labels as I passed them, wondering if his was still there.

And there it was, in neat, black, sans-serif letters on aluminum.

Why? Did they believe he'd still turn up to claim what was his? Were they reluctant to call reality by its name?

I had seen him swimming away from The Indomitable, his strong strokes dividing the waters, intrepid in their hopeless quest to gain a shore hugging the horizon.

There wasn't any reasonable doubt. Thierry Thorne had died a pirate's death at the lavish bosom of the sea, his flesh a surprise meal for the hungry creatures lurking in its deeps.

And even if he had survived, he'd never be back here.

Yet his name was still on his door—a door lacking the pirate's flag it deserved.

I was still in thoughts when I reached the receptionist's desk, the dragon's lair.

She put her magazine away when she saw me. "Oh, Miss Anderson, so nice to see you." She got up and showed me her perfect teeth.

I must have climbed the rungs of her ranking and gained VIP status.

"They're already waiting for you." She walked around the table and motioned me to follow her.

I had expected us to head for Thomas Thorne's office—it, too, still carried its former occupant's name. But she took me to the next door instead, labeled as a meeting room, knocked, and opened it to let me in.

Inside, a long, narrow table was occupied by two men I didn't know and by one woman—Theresa.

When she saw me, she got up and approached. "Anne, how are you?"

Without waiting for my reply, she hugged me, which embedded my nose in a tangle of black hair and a cloud of lemon, both of which tickled it and made answering difficult. I placed my hand on her back, feeling her bony shoulder blades.

"I'm good," I told her locks. "And you?"

She nodded.

We stood like that for some moments, the two men watching. She finally let go of me. We locked eyes.

She smiled. "Let's do the introductions."

The first man was tall, wore a black shirt and an ecru suit. He had shoulder-length, umber hair and sideburns laced with gray. An elongate, pinkish-translucent gem dangled from a golden chain around his neck like a tie turned into metal and polished stone.

"This is Erol Entity. He's TCorp's new interim CEO.

"Miss Anderson, pleased to meet you." He seized my hand in both of his, his touch as warm as the glow in his golden eyes.

He smelled of gingerbread and hickory smoke.

I was tempted to ask if Erol Entity was his guru working title but decided against it and merely nodded at him. Mr. Entity was nothing but another bizarre piece of this weird puzzle called corporate reality.

"It's so good to finally see you," he said, "after all that has transpired. We've been looking forward to this."

Have we? And who was 'we', anyway?

My smile felt as bland as a Royal Sandwich, the chicken variety without sauce.

"And that's Gerald Germain, head of corporate legal." Theresa touched the other man's shoulder.

He was shorter than me, had crewcut hair, and a boxer's stare. "Miss Anderson." His grip on my hand was firm.

"May I offer you some chai?" Erol Entity asked. "Or... coffee, maybe."

I shook my head.

Theresa motioned me to take the chair beside her. The CEO and his attorney sat opposite, the former oozing New Age two decades old, the latter with his hands on a stack of papers.

"Miss Anderson," Erol Entity said. "Theresa asked us to be open with you, so I'll be exactly that if you agree."

I nodded, curious about what was to come. A proposal for a settlement, that's what Theresa had told me when she had called me two days ago. I understood that it wasn't the kind of settlement that people lived in. Rather, TCorp was afraid that I would sue them for what had happened. They were scared of me.

"We know that you've been wronged by this company's former CEO and some of its employees," he continued. "But be assured that TCorp does not condone such behavior. So, we want to offer you a token of compensation for what has transpired." He paused for a moment, eyes on his perfect fingernails. "We have values, and we live them."

His gaze rose from his hands and blessed my face.

Did the man expect my Amen or a hearty hug?

The corners of his mouth inched up—by much less than an inch.

I gave him a tight nod.

He turned to the man at his left side. "Gerald?"

"Okay," the attorney said. "Miss Anderson, the board has entitled me to prepare a contract for you. As you'll see, it contains a... generous offer." He took an envelope from his stack, hesitated, then pushed it over the table, frowning, as if being generous ran against his innate instincts.

I pulled it towards me. It's flap was open.

The CEO nodded his chin at me, which caused his wavy hair to make a rustling sound against his collar. With the motion, the pink stone on his chest glittered in the sunlight entering through the windows behind. It must have been heavy, having the approximate length and diameter of a man's reproductive organ ready for action.

With an effort, I looked away from the petrified erection, concentrated on the envelope, and pulled a wad of papers from it. The sheets were stapled at a corner, and the first one carried the title Settlement Contract. It came with a ponderous definition of Anne Anderson as 'The Beneficiary' and TCorp Inc. as 'TCorp'.

The next pages were all small print, with endless Clauses, Terms, Paragraphs, Disclaimers, Exhibits, Eligibilities, Whereases, and what else. I gazed at Germain, hoping for a reader's digest.

"You may want to have a look at paragraph 33.2." His attempt at a smile dug reluctant furrows across his cheeks.

I searched for the section and found it on page 15.

It talked about a compensation, or, rather, about The Beneficiary's Compensation. And there was a number next to it, preceded by a dollar sign. Then came a digit, followed by a row of zeroes.

I counted the zeroes.

I swallowed and counted them once more.

"Do you have any questions, Miss Anderson," the attorney asked, interrupting my third attempt to count.

I always had thought numbers were easy, even the large ones. But the one in paragraph 33.2 wasn't. It was too long, and it was incompatible with The Beneficiary.

The Beneficiary was panicking. She had to get out of here.

"She'll have to discuss this with her attorneys," Theresa said.

Germain took a noisy breath. "Please note that this offer will expire. The contract needs to be signed by the end of next week." He sat up straight, which made his head level with the CEO's chin. "And it has to be signed as it is."

Mr. Entity held up a hand. "Don't feel rushed, though. You take your time. Find yourself a quiet place on the beach and think it through. If you have questions, call Gerald Germain. Or, if you think I can be of any assistance, do call me." He touched the pink stone on his chest.

None of this was happening.

In perfect choreography, each of them pulled a business card from their suit and placed it in front of me. Both carried the TCorp logo. German's contact data was printed in matter-of-fact black, the letters on Entity's card were raised gold.

I collected the tokens of their existence and placed them in the envelope, together with the draft contract and that number it held.

That large number.

We all got up.

I shook hands with Germain, getting my fingers almost crushed in the process, and then with Entity. The latter again enclosed my hand in both of his, his touch a healing balm to compensate for the attorney's crushing grip.

"What's not in the contract," the interim CEO said, "is the question of your future." He paused, making me wonder if he was about to read my future in the pinkish depths of his stone prick. "Your future employment is subject to discussion with Human Resources. I've asked them to find a position that's more in line with your outstanding achievements for our company."

"Er..."

His brows furrowed in deep concern. "I'm sure we can find something that fits your talents."

He was serious.

But so was I. "Thank you. But I've already found employment elsewhere. And then I'm planning to go back to school."

"Oh... Of course, I understand. Someone like you wouldn't let her skills go to waste." He bowed his head. "May I ask what you are doing?"

"I work... in the food industry."

Loosely speaking, Royal Sandwiches did manufacture food, didn't they?

"Excellent choice. Food is humanity's sustenance. It will always be in demand while man walks this earth."

Seriously?

I nodded and untangled myself from the bandage of his hands, said my goodbyes and fled the room, Theresa in my wake.

She placed a hand on my back and steered me past the dragon's smile and down the corridor. "Now that went well," she said.

"Was this like... real? These guys... and that number?"

"Yes." Theresa pushed the button to call the elevator. "Weird, but the board thought Erol Entity is the perfect choice for a CEO. They said something about moving into modern times. Search me, but he seems last millennium. But the board's members are ancient, in comparison, so they probably think of him as cutting edge. Anyway, I leave that to them. And as to that number... yes, it's real. And I shouldn't tell you, but there's some wriggle room in it, you might drive the price a bit higher. I told the board to go easy on you."

"I guess I should get myself a lawyer." I could ask Homer for a recommendation.

"Do that. I've asked my own law guy to help you, but he said he couldn't. Conflict of interests, with me as TCorp's future majority shareholder, and with you on the other side of that settlement." She shrugged.

The cabin arrived. We boarded it.

Theresa pushed the ground floor button.

I pressed the one labeled 6.

"You wanna pay a visit to your former colleagues?"

"No... er, well, later maybe. First, I'd like to see a friend of mine. He's working on the sixth floor."

"That's IT there. Right?"

"Yep."

The cabin stopped, and its door opened.

I got out. Theresa followed.

The cabin closed behind her. She gave it a look and shrugged. "I'll take another one." Then she took my hand and squeezed it. "Anne, we haven't had a good opportunity to talk since... and I..."

I squeezed back.

"I want to thank you," she said, "for everything you've done. For having been with me."

I nodded. "Thanks to you, too, for being a... friend in a dark hour."

She chuckled. "A dark hour, true. One of my darkest. It was good not to be alone." She let go of me and rubbed her arms. "Still makes me shiver when I think of that hold."

I nodded. "Yes, but that's over now. It's the past... Let's forget it. It's not what we are, is it?"

It's not what I was, at least.

"I guess not." She shook her head in a slow, pensive motion, her gaze on the floor. Then she looked up at me.

"Anne... There's something I wanted to ask you, about Thierry."

"Yes?"

"Back on the ship, when he jumped... that was so crazy. Why did he do it? And... do you think he made it back to the shore?"

Why did he do it? That was a good question. The police had asked it, too, during the endless interviews in the days after the Coast Guard had picked us up from the yacht in that stormy night. I could only speculate, though. "I don't know... He was so calm back then, when we talked. Not desperate... at peace, rather. I sometimes think he had a plan. Jump ship, make everyone think he's drowned, yet reach the shore. Find a new life."

She took a deep breath. "He was always the smart one, the one who's winning. So, yeah... you may be right."

I shrugged. "I don't know. But... I somehow hope he made it."

"So do I."

We embraced.

When I released her, there were tears on her cheeks—and on mine, too.

I still held her hands. And lemon hung in the air—a scent fraught with memories now, some good, some bad, all of them intense.

"When do I see you again?" I asked.

A grin spread across her face. "What about dinner tonight?"

"Yes, I'd love that." I nodded.

"Great, I'll pick you up, okay? At seven?"

"Perfect. You know where I live."

"Oh yes." She pushed the button to claim the elevator. Its chime answered almost immediately. "And now, go and see your friend."

Before I could answer, she was swallowed by the machine.

I turned, wiped off my tears, and took a deep breath. It was time I looked for a certain parrot.

As I had told Thierry, back on the yacht, we're the masters of what and who we are.  And sometimes we have to jump. Not knowing where it will take us.