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Oswald’s slight double chin wobbles while his eyes dart from William to me, hesitating as though trying to make out where the trap lies.

At last he gives the slightest of nods.

“Well, we at Pennington would love to make the most of your efforts in traveling here,” William continues. “So please tell us, what is it that you would like to do before tonight’s welcoming banquet?”

The previous long pause seems like a snap in comparison to the one that follows, and for what feels like an eternity we stand there, watching the man think. As his teary blue eyes swivel round the room as if this is the deepest question he’s been asked all day, I feel an odd sense of trepidation rising. What will he say? With anyone else, I could predict an answer. But with Oswald? The man’s a shot in the dark. You never know where he’s going to land.

But . . . this is okay. There is still a win here. The point is I have the company card. I have the day off from my desk to tour Oswald around. And I do look pretty sharp in my outfit, if I say so myself: a deep maroon cardigan, white blouse, black tights, and trendy gray skirt with just enough twirl to show I can be fun while professional. My celebratory outfit for the eventual victory in sending in my manuscript tonight and, on top of that, snagging the free day. It took quite a while to squeeze myself into this thing, but even Olivia had to compliment me on it this morning—and that’s really saying something.

“I . . . I believe you have one of those swimming tanks around here.”

My thoughts halt. I see out of the corner of my eye one of the dark locks I painstakingly curled this morning start to fall. What did he say?

William’s brows are pinched. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I know what you mean. You’ll have to clarify. You want to go swimming?”

“The Float Spot?” Oswald says at last. He blinks at me.

I stare for a moment, letting the words sink in. The Float Spot. Of all the thousands of wonderful things to do today, he wants to go to the. Float. Spot.

The newest sensory-deprivation saltwater tank in town, where you strip down to nothing, squeeze yourself into a tiny capsule, and, worst of all, shut the door. To nothing. Lyla introduced this bizarre hobby to me a few months ago on a holiday. She asked me if I wanted to go with her, and I went along, thinking the whole time we were going to a spa full of ordinary things like, oh, I don’t know, relaxing music and pink nail polish and foot massages. Instead, where did I find myself? Sitting in an itchy robe in a cold room, waiting for my turn in the alien birthing pod. I distinctly remember this terrifying sign on the opposite wall in bold red letters:

EXTENDED SENSORY DEPRIVATION CAN RESULT IN EXTREME ANXIETY, HALLUCINATIONS, BIZARRE THOUGHTS, TEMPORARY SENSELESSNESS, AND DEPRESSION.

For the record, they forgot to add NAUSEA to the list.

I cannot possibly think of a worse idea.

“What a terrific idea.” I snap my head to see William Pennington smiling brightly. “I can imagine few things more relaxing after a long flight. I’m sure Ms. Cade would love to join you. Wouldn’t you, Savannah?”

He’s looking at me expectantly. He’s waiting for me to reply. He’s waiting for me to say, “Oh, what a dream!” while Giselle is off in the corner with Delilah Ray somehow justifying the need to purchase matching Tory Burch bags to hold all their bookmarks.

Well, I’m just not going to. That’s all there is to it. I’ll drive Oswald to the crazy station if he wants, and then I’ll sit in the lobby with a gas-station hot dog for three hours while he enjoys his silence. Oh! I could possibly even sneak back into the office, grab the manuscript, and work on it while I’m waiting. With any luck I could have it sent off to Claire Donovan even before the welcoming banquet tonight.

But as William’s cold blue eyes peer into mine, I hear my plans sputter until they die out. I feel exposed, as though every thought is streaming across my eyes for him to read. Somehow, he knows what I’m thinking. From the frown tilted ever so slightly upon his lips to the crease between his brow, he knows, and he, the boss, cares. I can hear the words replaying in my own head: “And editors, do whatever it takes this weekend to keep your authors happy. Whatever. It. Takes.”

A cold feeling comes over me, the air dropping fifteen degrees within a dark, ominous shadow.

I’m not going to get food.

I’m not going to get biscotti at 8th & Roast.

I’m not even going to get to listen to Trace Green.

No, what I’m going to do is get in that stupid tank.

My voice strangles as I turn to Oswald. “That’s a brilliant idea, Oswald. I can’t wait.”

“Trace Green?” I hear Giselle’s voice ring out, her Botoxed forehead struggling in vain to crease. “Yes, we can hear him, I suppose. But it might cut into our pedi time . . . Is he the one who wrote Amber Waters?”

“Tides,” I mumble bitterly. “Amber Tides.”

Well. It’s settled, then. While my supervisor is off getting her perfectly manicured nails repolished and half listening to one of my favorite authors share powerful, never-heard-before tales while she is also scrolling through the J.Crew website, I’ll be starving. In a lukewarm tank. In the dark. Hallucinating.

I look up and realize William Pennington is gazing at me. This time, however, it’s in a way that isn’t altogether . . . well, terrifying. “So. You are a fan of Green?” he says.

I stiffen. Green isn’t exactly . . . literary. More like read-him-if-you-want-to-go-on-a-stay-up-till-dawn-ignore-all-family-and-friends-call-in-sick-for-two-days-fictional-adventure-of-your-life. That type of fiction.

“Oh,” I say, shrugging. “I may have read him at some point years ago. I’m more of a . . . a Chaucer fan myself nowadays.”