Micah Shine’s work trip had taken him to London and the smaller city of Sandwich, England, where he’d been attempting to increase the size of Shine Industries.
In a world where virtual goods seemed to be prized and non-tangible investments were coveted, Shine Industries still made things.
Things to create the digital world, but things, nevertheless.
But Micah had been gone for a month, and San Francisco was cooler in the early fall than when he left.
He stopped at the front desk of his building when he walked in, and the concierge handed him his mail. They’d sorted out the junk mail for him and he paid most of his bills electronically, so all that was left was a wedding invitation from an old Le Rosey friend and one odd-looking envelope with just his name written on the heavy, creamy stationary.
It didn’t even have his address on it. A courier must’ve dropped it off.
Micah waited until he’d gotten back into his penthouse apartment and ordered some dinner to be delivered before sliding a knife under the envelope’s flap to slice it open.
When he read the letter, his hands opened, and it dropped to the floor.
The heavy paper lay at his feet like the ocean lapping at his toes with a swirling riptide just beyond, waiting to pull him under and out to sea.
He considered the threat and blackmail in the letter for the rest of the night, staring at the paper and the electric blue fire in the fireplace in his living room while drinking scotch. Shivers ran through his tendons. The backs of his arms cramped.
Finally, when business hours had begun in Manhattan and the San Francisco streets under his window were stirring to life in the dark of the early morning, he dialed the phone number on the stationery letterhead.
A woman answered.
Micah said, “Hello, Dr. Bell. I’m delighted to work together on this project with you, but I’d also like to discuss a permanent place in your organization.”