“Say,” he said, fumbling through a stack of AV paraphernalia and producing a silver rectangle, “you did have the interviews.” He slid across the desk a USB hard drive, with “Poison Valley” written in black Sharpie on one corner. “Rich…,” I said. He shrugged. “Backup.” I laughed. “They’re gonna fire you.” “Let’s be honest, neither of us is going to have a job after this.”
