Maxwell had calculated the exact moment to send the email.
Not so early that it seemed he'd been waiting. Not so late as to interrupt Greg's morning. Seven-fifteen was the precise time a document sat in his inbox, not as if it had been intentionally left there, when in fact it had.
He'd been eating yogurt from the vending machine on his desk until eight-fifty-two; he'd forgotten to pack lunch from his kitchen on Lake Shore Drive, a new oversight born of having so much counter space that he'd started preparing things that required more time and effort when Greg opened the email.
Maxwell watched Greg's face as he read. At first, he was focused: the concentrated, slightly rigid expression of a man facing technical material he was determined to handle with confidence. Then he read another. He stopped at paragraph four. He leaned forward slightly.
Temperature Difference Modeling Table. The most technical page in the document.
Greg grabbed his coffee. He put it down without drinking it. He opened a new email. Maxwell returned to his screen. Sarah's internal message appeared at 9:04. She said nothing, which meant: I'm watching. Wait.
Werner's reply arrived at 11:17.
It came through Hartwell's official thread; at least Greg had handled that part, but the subject line had been changed. Maxwell's original heading was: Reinhardt Portland Corridor Temperature Variation Summary, March 23. Greg had changed it to something he'd typed himself: Reinhardt Portland Update Strategic Overview.
Maxwell stared at the words "Strategic Overview" for about three seconds.
The document Greg had sent consisted of fifteen numbered paragraphs on cold chain temperature modeling. It contained exactly 1,500 words of Zero Strategy and Applied Logistics Science. Calling it Strategic Overview was a label that indicated who had written it, even though the subject line didn't explicitly mention it. Werner's response explained the rest:
Mr. Paulson: I've noticed that paragraph four mentions Table 2B, but the table itself doesn't appear in the version you submitted. Also, paragraph nine raises questions about humidity control thresholds that require Mr. Dragoski's expertise. Please give me further advice on how to address these questions. K. Werner.
Maxwell opened his copy and found it immediately.
Table 2B. Page three of six. Greg had submitted four pages.
He had forgotten a page break when exporting the PDF and had inadvertently submitted a truncated version, which required a specific combination of not reading the document before submitting it, not checking the page count, and not previewing the attachment before clicking submit. Three distinct errors, perfectly aligned, as if this were an example of what happens when you write your name on something you didn't create and then try to erase it without touching it.
Sarah appeared at the edge of her workspace at 11:22. She stood there for two seconds with the expression of someone so overwhelmed by what she had just read that it would be best to be next to someone who had also read it, and that would suffice.
"Table 2B," she said.
"Page three or six," she added.
She put two fingers to her lips for a moment. "Werner called you by name. In writing. Three times in two weeks."
"I know."
"This isn't a coincidence. He's putting it on record that the position is yours."
"He's a German operations director who manages the board's timeline. He needs precise technical answers, and he knows where they come from." Maxwell opened a new window. "He's not making anything up. He's simply stating the facts."
He stared at her for a moment; a searching look, but today more penetrating. "What are you doing right now?"
"I'm fixing it."
He'd already fixed it before she arrived, at 11:19. An email to Greg, a forwarded Table 2B, one line: page three seemed to have been lost in transmission; attached the corrected version. Copy to Hartwell. Date and time. A helpful tone, with the characteristic, tight-lipped way a man covers up a colleague's mistake, making sure the cover-up is documented.
"You fixed it for him," Sarah said.
"I fixed it for Werner's meeting schedule. The difference matters."
He glanced at Greg's desk, then back at him. His jaw tightened as it did when he expressed himself precisely rather than emotionally about something that mattered deeply to him. "When are you going to finish this?"
"Specifically what to do."
"Finish the job. Give it to someone else. Make sure it gets done." A pause. "I was wrong to ask. I know why you're doing this. I'm asking how long you intend to keep doing it, specifically here."
He looked at her intently, in a way he didn't usually do in professional settings, because staring was something you had to decide to do and then face the consequences. "I'm going to do something quickly," he said. "I need sixty more days, and then the answer to your question will change."
She understood. Three things shifted rapidly on her face: evaluation, then acknowledgment, and then something that settled there that he had never mentioned. It wasn't exactly warmth. It was determination. The face of someone who has decided to wait for something and is at peace with the wait.
"Sixty days," she said.
"Almost."
He nodded once. He returned to his desk. He stopped. He turned. "You're incredible," he said. Not warmly. Not as a compliment. As a verdict that had been brewing for sixteen months, finally delivered because the evidence had solidified. Then he sat down and began typing without looking up.
The system beeped at 4:48.
[Hidden Reward Unlocked]
[Condition: 548 days continuous knowledge transfer to others, no compensation, no expectations]
[Colleagues, contacts, clients: every week. Not a single interruption.]
[Reward: 650 shares Illinois Tool Works Inc. (NYSE: ITW)]
[Price, March 23, 2012: $52.14/share]
[Total Value: $33,891]
[Taxes: Handled. Host's Liability: $0.00]
[Deposit: Fidelity Account -4471]
He sent Greg a draft of paragraph nine at 5:41. Six numbered replies, each with the correct source. Subject: Werner's Paragraph 9 Draft Reply for your review. CC: Hartwell.
Greg refused to check it. He forwarded it. His name appeared in Werner's inbox, attached to a job belonging to someone he shared an apartment with and hadn't seen lately when passing by.
Maxwell drove home. He made dinner. He ate at the counter, gazing at the lake, which, in the darkness of a clear Friday in late March, seemed more like a waiting game than a disappearing one, if you watched it long enough.
He thought about sixty days. He thought about Priya Mehta and the LLC paperwork he had to turn in on Monday. He thought about the next morning, a shooting range in Des Plaines, and those hands that already knew things no one had ever taught them.
He put down his fork.
He was fine. He was, really, perfectly fine.