Chapter 22: The Summit

At nine sharp on Friday, in the green room, Odette handed each of us a cup of black coffee and told us three things.

"Kip will object. Let him finish."

"Don't defend yourselves. Tell the truth in the order it happened."

"And I'll ask him one question. After that, you sit down."

"What's the question?" I said.

"You'll know it," said Odette, and left.

At two o'clock the ballroom was full.

Three hundred and forty employees sat in the folding chairs, with the board in a row at the front.

There were five of them, in gray and navy.

The chair, a woman with a white crop and a pen on a ribbon, sat in the middle with a copy of the schedule.

Odette sat at the end of the row.

Kip sat in the front row of the staff, in his fleece vest, with a leather folder on his knee and his teeth ready.

Laney sat three rows back, holding a legal pad against her chest.

Drake and I walked up the steps together.

The stage manager at the side looked at the schedule, looked at us, and looked away with great tact.

I tapped the mic.

"Good afternoon," I said. "I'm Roz Szymanski, and this is Drake Hollister, and we're going to take your fifteen minutes and use fourteen."

A small laugh went through the room.

"Because we've also brought a tent."

We did the whole thing.

I pitched the Ridgeline tent, and Drake pitched the pack, and when we reached the places where we'd planned to disagree, we disagreed.

He told them my corner seam had leaked.

I told them his shoulder strap had bruised my collarbone.

We both told them it was fixed.

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