American Subsidiary

One spring morning – it was early May, and sunlight had just reached the ivy at his shoulder – Joseph Stone leaped up at his boss’s call, then slowly, so as not to remind himself of Pavlov’s dog, tucked his chair back under the shelf that held his keyboard.

He did not have far to go: three steps, four at most, took him from his cubicle to Peter Halsa’s pale, wood door.