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A quick snap of Dylan’s jaw. “Fine. You’re fired. Get the hell out of here. Now.”
He closes his eyes for a moment.
Nobody else will know.
Amy, I promise.
“Fair enough,” Tom says. “Give me an hour to gather up my—”
Dylan says, “Jesus, didn’t you hear what I just said?Now.That means now.”
Tom spares a glance around his cluttered office. “Dylan, I’ve got a lot of files, belongings, other stuff to box up. It’ll take me some time. Be reasonable.”
“Screw you, and screw being reasonable,” he shoots back. “I want to see your Criterion ID and building key card on that desk—right now!—and you out the door. I’ll get your crap boxed up and shipped to your home.”
“Dylan…”
“I’m not in the mood for negotiating, Tom,” Dylan says. “Out. Now. Or I’ll get building security to escort you out, right past your coworkers. You want that, I can make it happen.”
Tom slowly gets up, digs a hand into his left pants pocket, pulls out the key card and drops it on the desk. He takes his Criterion identification card out of his wallet, surrenders that as well.
He closes up his personal laptop and stows it in his bag. As he moves around his desk, he spots the collection of family photos on the wall.
Dylan says, “Hurry your ass up, Tom.”
Tom takes down a framed family portrait, his favorite: it shows the three of them at a lake up in Maine last fall, the foliage bright red and yellow, their smiles so happy and wide.
Dylan says, “I believe that frame belongs to Criterion.”
Tom doesn’t say a word. He goes to the rear of the photo, tries to undo the backing. It’s tight. There are four metal tabs that refuse to bend.
He takes the framed photo, smashes it against the corner of his desk. The glass shatters and he digs at the broken frame, freeing the photo. He folds it in half and puts it in his computer bag.
“Deduct it from my last paycheck,” he says, walking out past Dylan.
Tom walks through the newsroom with his shoulders straight, not catching anyone’s eyes. No time to explain, no time to talk.
He just wants out.
Nearing the elevator bank, he’s surprised to see a small crowd of employees and young girls clustered around.
“Man, we’ve been waiting here for ten minutes already,” someone says. “What’s the holdup?”
He slings the computer bag over his shoulder, gets out his iPhone, and dials his uncle John, out there on the southern end of Staten Island, safe with Denise.
The phone rings.
Rings.
Twice more and it goes to voicemail. Maybe they’re out walking by the marshes, or fishing from Uncle John’s skiff, or doing some shopping.
When the phone greeting is over, he says, “Hey Uncle John, Tom here. I’m…taking the rest of the day off. I’m coming by to see you and Denise. Lunch is on me. Take care.”
He disconnects the call, puts the phone away.
Stands and waits.
Some nearby employees are staring at him.
