On my way back from the huge glass expanse of the foyer, I stop by my mailbox to pick up the trainee resumes. I’d rather not have to babysit a bunch of fresh-faced college graduates while we’re trying to come up with new strategies, but we need to do something with them. They’re a huge pile, stuffed into my mailbox, and I briefly wish that colleges would encourage their graduates to follow the old rule for resumes: one page, plus one extra page for each Nobel prize awarded.

Do I really have to read all this? I know that we’re meant to be constantly recruiting, but I joined Walters Capital to play the game, not to play host to a bunch of grasping neo-entrepreneurs who watched one too many seasons of ‘The Apprentice.’

In the meantime, I need to come up with something new, something clever, and right now, I’ve run dry. Mike’s comment about not having a girl comes back to me, and I shake my head. I want my team to stay right where we are—at the top of the world—and that doesn’t leave much time for anything else. My work is everything, and where would I find a girl who understands that?

The pile of papers is just big enough to hold with one hand, and I set off down the corridor toward my office. I don’t use it very often, because I’d rather be on the floor with my team, but it’s good to have a place to read now and again. As I get there, I notice a kid sitting on one of the chairs across the corridor. He doesn’t look like he belongs to anybody obvious, scuffing his shoes on the floor, and looking idly at the paintings. Maybe one of the secretaries? Hard to say.

I unlock my door, collapse into my chair, and settle in to look at resumes. There’s the Haas girl, Ronnie, right? Cute name. She was top of Data Science from Lowell College, so she’s damn smart, and according to her resume she’s got just the right kind of research experience.

I think about seeing her in the foyer, long legs set off by that tailored dress, all the way down to those expensive shoes. As I reached past her to open the door, her head turned and I got a glimpse of fine, sharp features and red lips. Unexpectedly, I wonder what it would be like to kiss those lips. Shit. Focus, man. I shake my head. Where was I? Right.

I put a question mark on her resume, and start sorting through the rest of the pile.

After forty minutes, my vision is blurring, and I’ve had enough prizes, awards and valedictorians to last me a month. Why do they all have to be such overachievers? This is a competitive field, I know, but these graduates are all the same; finance, business, MBAs, the whole thing. These are the people all our competitors have in their teams—and they can pay more, because they’re bigger. These people are the same thing everyone has—we need something new, and I’m not seeing it here. We need people who are different, people who don’t fit in in a normal firm.

Outside, through the glass partition, I can see the kid is still there. Someone has evidently taken pity on him, and found him a pad and some paper, and he’s writing on it.

A dim memory comes to me; twenty-five years ago, in Dad’s office, making up stories to entertain myself while I waited for him to finish work. I stand up, walk around my desk, and open the door.

“Hey, man.” He doesn’t look up. “What are you writing?”

A pause. “Just stories.”

“Are you waiting for someone?” I try to sound as approachable as I can, but, hell, what do I know about kids?

“Yeah. My Mom works down the hall.”

“Oh, right.” What do kids like? “Do you want a Coke or something? We get them free here, you know.”

He looks up. “Really?”

“Yeah.” I grin. “Cool, huh? Hold on, I’ll be back in a sec.”

The fridge in the office kitchen is stacked with energy drinks, and I rummage in the back to find a Coke. When I get to my office, the kid has gone back to writing on his pad. “Hey, man. Here you go, compliments of Walters Capital.”

He takes it tentatively and opens it. “Thanks.” He looks like he’s about twelve, although I’m hardly a good judge; dark hair and nascent pimples.

“So, are you here all the time, or what?” I perch on the chair next to him, making a mental note to ask for more comfortable chairs for the waiting area—damn, no wonder we don’t get many visitors if they have to sit in these things.

He shrugs. “Only days when there’s no after-school program. Mom always has to work late here.”

“Sounds like she works pretty hard.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t you have friends you can go and see after school? This place is kinda boring.”

His face darkens. “No. No-one wants to talk to me. They think I’m a nerd.” He looks down at his pad. “I used to be friends with another guy who wrote stories, and we would talk about them, but he moved away.”

I try again. “What kind of stuff do you like? Science fiction, fantasy, what?”

“Yeah. I guess.” This is like pulling teeth, but I can be persistent when I want to be.

“Well, I like Doctor Who. The new version of Battlestar Galactica is good. And I guess everyone likes Firefly.”

He looks up again. “What’s Firefly?”

The look of surprise on my face is completely unfeigned. “You’ve never seen Firefly?”

“No.” A flicker of interest. “Is it good?”

“Man, you are in for a treat. I’ll lend you the DVD.”

“We don’t have a DVD player.” Whoops, showing my age here.

“No, of course you don’t. No problemo—I’ll put it on a USB stick for you.” He looks at me doubtfully. “Seriously, man, you’ll love it. I’ll bring it in tomorrow. Are you going to be here tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, great. You know,” I lean forward, “I kind of wasn’t the most popular guy in school either. I was younger than everyone else in my class, and I had real thick glasses. Not a good combination when you’re twelve.”

He gives me a caustic look. “I’m thirteen.”

“Uh. Sorry.” In fairness, this is actually a pretty serious insult when you’re thirteen. “Plus, I couldn’t catch a ball. Also not good.”

“I guess not.” Back to the pad again, this time with more determination. I think this conversation is at an end for the moment.

“Okay, man, I should get back to work.” I proffer a hand. “I’m Tom. It’s been good to meet you.” He looks at my hand for a minute, and eventually puts out his own.

“I’m Phillip.”

“See you tomorrow, Phillip.” I retreat to my office and bury myself in the resumes again. Outside, Phillip scribbles on his pad, and occasionally looks up at me.