11. Dean
DEAN
Elevator ride—thirty seconds of mirror-polished restraint. I practice my neutral face, chin leveled, eyes alert but unrushed. The reflection looks competent. Inside, I’m a hive of static.
Anodyne enough to dissolve questions.
The reasoning is simple. A father missing an arm deserves the best replacement science can craft.
Full stop. Altruism should not require applause—certainly not the beneficiary’s daughter’s admiration.
Still, a secondary motivation hums, unwelcome but undeniable.
Imagining Thalassa’s delight when her father flexes a state-of-the-art myoelectric hand for the first time.
That imagined delight has powered every late-night spreadsheet marathon since Thanksgiving weekend.
I reach my office on the executive floor—a glass box, with a 270-degree view, barren of personal photos. Keeps things clean. A single succulent stands guard beside the monitor, defying the odds. I set my leather folio down, but instead of logging into the dashboard, I pace.
07:56. Four minutes.
I check the encrypted VoIP handset—green LED blinking standby. I check the door lock—engaged. I check the air vents, as though corporate espionage teams might be crouched inside with parabolic mics. Ridiculous. But I need this to go off without a hitch.
07:59. The handset chirps. I lift the receiver, depress the mute, and inhale.
“Dean Copeland,” I say, keeping my voice pitched low.
“Good morning, Mr. Fields,” Hoskins answers, using the alias. Gruff but upbeat. “I assume you’d like a status update on Mr. Howard.”
I close my eyes for a moment, centering. “Yes, please.”
“Your client arrived yesterday with his wife. Some initial apprehension, normal. Once we demonstrated surface-EMG mapping, he was on board. Residual limb health is excellent—kudos to whoever oversaw early rehab. We cast the socket and performed preliminary myo tests. I’m pleased to say he qualifies for our newest multi-articulating hand, the NovaGrip X2.
Grip sequences are programmable, waterproof up to ten meters. Turnaround time will be two weeks.”
A slow exhale shudders out of me. “Any obstacles?”
“Your foundation handled the costs. Zero red tape remaining.”
“Side effects?”
“Transient phantom-limb sensations during calibration. We’ll taper desensitization therapy. Prognosis is near-natural function.”
“Thank you, doctor.” My voice edges husky, but I clear it. “Please keep me apprised.”
“Will do. Your discretion is noted.”
The call ends. I set the receiver down with more care than necessary, as though the plastic shell now contains delicate satisfaction.
For a moment, the static inside me converts to warmth that spreads through my sternum, shoulders, fingertips.
I picture Mr. Howard flexing titanium-plated fingers, maybe lifting a mug unassisted for the first time in years.
Then I picture Thalassa’s eyes when she sees him do it. The warmth sharpens, half bliss, half ache.
“Anonymous,” I remind myself aloud. The word reverberates off the glass. Gifts given in secret carry no expectations. She is not to know. The arrangement ended Sunday at three thirty p.m., when we delivered her to the campus library steps. Anything after that is philanthropy, nothing more.
Though philanthropy has never made my pulse trip like this.
Time to engage the empire. I open the resource-allocation dashboard, and the columns blur. Normally, I inhale balance sheets the way others inhale espresso. Today’s numbers jitter. My gaze keeps overlaying imaginary freckles on top of bar graphs. Unacceptable.
I force-run the mental drill. Capital expense line items prioritized by ROI horizon. StarConnector—the cloud-ops platform—is at the top of Colin’s wish list, but the second column’s red is on mine. Marcus insists StarConnector’s subscription plus migration dwarfs its efficiency gains.
I re-run internal calculus. Fifty-six restaurants stateside, twenty-two abroad. After running Marcus’s numbers, I’m in agreement with him. It’s too much without enough promise of a future.
Yet my brother believes the platform unlocks future-proof scaling. Colin rarely utters absolute certainty unless he’s debugged every line.
I flip to email, half expecting a fresh all-caps plea from him. Nothing. Odd.
My glass door whispers open—Marcus Burgh, CFO emeritus in everything but title. White hair shellacked, three-piece pin-stripe, carnation boutonniere. He moves silently, like a well-oiled grandfather clock.
“Good morning, Dean.” He sets a folder on my desk—a relic. Physical paper. “Pre-read for the operations meeting.”
I glance at the label. StarConnector Cost Escalation Analysis. Of course. “Appreciated.”
He drops into the visitor chair uninvited—a power move so habitual it feels ceremonial. “I wanted a quick word about Colin’s recent…enthusiasm.” The faintest smirk.
I fold my hands. “He’s passionate about uptime stability.”
“As are we all.” Marcus steeples his fingers. “But passion can be reckless, particularly after the holiday incident.”
He means the Thanksgiving memory leak, already patched. I maintain a neutral expression. “The incident cost twenty-two thousand in comps. Long weekend revenue remained positive.”
“Still, optics matter.” Marcus leans back. “Colin may push StarConnector again in this afternoon’s session. I’d hate to see brotherly debate escalate in public.”
I note the implied directive. Rein him in. He’s not wrong—it looks bad for us to argue in front of the C-suite. “I’ll speak to him privately.”
A grandfatherly nod. “Excellent. For the record, CapEx tolerance remains tight. Investors appreciate prudence now that you hold the reins.”
“I’m glad to have their trust.”
He stands, smooths lapels. “One more thing.” Pause for effect. “You seem distracted lately. Hope everything’s quite alright.”
“Perfectly,” I lie. I’m not about to share my latest obsession with a man who’s been like a grandfather to us.
He studies my face as though scanning for microcracks, nods once, then departs, leather soles silent.
I exhale through my teeth. The man senses weakness like sharks sense blood.
I pivot to my monitor, but a rogue thought surfaces.
Marcus oversaw my and Colin’s scholarships, our first car loans, and even wove anecdotes at our grandfather’s memorial.
Undermining his counsel feels akin to mutiny.
Yet progress stagnates under his frugal eye.
Ninety minutes tick by. I approve three vendor payments, draft a Q1 site-visit itinerary, and sign off on promotional budgets.
Output looks normal. Still, my brain’s CPU cycles at fifty percent.
Every other minute, I think about Mr. Howard acclimating to his new arm.
Perhaps he’ll send a thank-you email to the foundation.
Perhaps Thalassa will mention it in future conversations I have no right to expect.
“Enough,” I tell the succulent. It offers no counsel. I force-scroll through the operations-meeting deck. Slide twenty-three analyses StarConnector, citing Marcus’s numbers—migration cost inflated by twenty percent above Colin’s estimate. That figures.
But is the data credible? Marcus is an expert, but he’s also very, very old. I need to ask Colin for his raw data.
I send him a chat ping. No response. I fire a text. Need five min before Ops mtg. Office? SMS shows delivered. No read receipt. Strange. Colin seldom ignores messages.
It’s almost noon. He usually haunts the dev lab by eleven. I stride down the hall, passing glass cubicles where managers conjure fiscal sorcery, then descend a floor to the innovation suite. The badge reader glows green.
Colin’s workstation sits dark, dual monitors asleep. A coffee mug half-full (likely cold) rests beside a spreadsheet printout scrawled with formulas. Evidence of sudden departure. I tap to wake his keyboard. Monitors display a live metrics dashboard, stable lines. No emergency.
“Where the hell are you?” I mutter.
I reverse course to the hospitality floor—kitchens, tasting labs.
Stainless-steel symphony of clanging spoons and simmering demi-glace.
Maybe he got snacky. When he’s been working on code all night, his eating habits range from eating nothing but protein bars and energy drinks to hovering with the chefs.
But our head chef reports no Colin sightings.
Floor fourteen—Data Ops bullpen. Analysts stare at screens, eyes ringed by code fatigue. None have seen him today.
Concerning, but not a crisis. I check my phone again—still no reply.
Marcus’s caution echoes. Colin has seemed fragile. My jaw tightens. My brother is not fragile. He’s brilliant, occasionally obsessive. Dismissing his concerns publicly could fracture the trust we’ve honed since childhood Lego alliances.
I step into a quiet alcove and dial him. Straight to voicemail. Curious escalates toward worry.
I text again: Where are you?
Then I add, against better judgment: Important—StarConnector numbers don’t align.
If anything can lure him, that will.
I return to my office, call up Colin’s last StarConnector proposal. His ROI calculus indeed uses lower migration overhead—he assumes phased rollout leveraging existing container clusters. My phone vibrates. Unknown number. I answer. It’s Dr. Hoskins again.
“Mr. Fields, quick update—Mr. Howard has already regained basic pronation control in preliminary tests. He’s eager to show his daughter.”
I smile, relief blowing in. “That’s very good to hear.”
Hoskins continues, “Assuming all metrics hold, he’ll do the final fit next Thursday. We’ll overnight the invoice to the fund.”
“Excellent,” I manage before we end the call. I allow myself ten full seconds of elation—shoulders loose, lips threatening an actual smile. Ten seconds only. Then I stand, smooth cuffs, and gather the meeting deck.
Before leaving the office, I open a secure browser tab and initiate a wire transfer from my personal discretionary account to the Rehabilitation Futures Fund, covering any overages plus an anonymous stipend labeled research grant . Overkill, but peace of mind.
Wire confirmation pings. Good. One variable locked.
As acting CEO, I should radiate calm. Instead, as I walk into the board meeting, my gaze darts to every doorway expecting curly hair and coder posture.
Marcus takes a seat beside me. “Everything in hand?”
“Always.”
He nods, begins distributing paper packets—ritual reinforcement of his agenda. I check my phone under the table.
No Colin.
The meeting begins. Slides click, voices drone. But behind my impassive mask, circuits fire. Locate Colin, verify his well-being, and reconcile the StarConnector discrepancy before it calcifies into budget law.
But in the back of my mind glows the mental image of a man flexing a titanium hand, and the young woman who will light up brighter than the sun when she sees it.
Priorities, Copeland.
For now, focus. The search resumes the moment the meeting ends.
Where the hell are you, Colin?