Page 2 of The Session

A young man walked up to Mark, smiled for a moment, paused, then regained his composure and asked in a friendly tone, “Need any help?”

“Maybe. I think I’m lost. I’m looking for the Atlantic Amateur Athletic Association,” Mark replied.

“Let’s go ask the help desk.”

He ushered Mark toward a long sandstone counter where several receptionists were helping visitors. “I’m Levon. What’s your name?”

“Mark.”

“Nice to meet you.” Levon told the nearest receptionist, “This is Mark. He’s here to meet with the Atlantic Amateur Athletic Association.”

“Sure thing,” she replied. “Thank you, Levon. Mark, may I have your driver’s license?”

He handed it over.

She studied it for a moment, then slid it into a device behind the counter. A moment later, she said, “Michelle will be right down to escort you. Please help yourself to a drink while you wait.”

She pointed Mark toward a kiosk where baristas were making coffee.

“Thank you,” Mark said.

“Have a great day,” Levon said.

Mark wasn’t in the mood for coffee, so he took a seat on a couch facing the reception desk.

The woman who had helped him returned to her work on a computer hidden behind the counter, but she noticed Mark watching.

“Need anything else?” she asked.

“What is this place?”

“Summit Strategies,” she explained, then went back to her screen.

Mark stared up at the atrium and the video walls as more cinematic images played across the multistory display. The current sequence was a montage of a man sitting in the grass giving a lecture, then riding across the American Southwest on a motorcycle alongside another man. Then it cut to the same fellow writing an equation on a blackboard.

Mark had heard the name Summit Strategies, but he’d never connected it to anything specific. It was a name like McKinsey or Deloitte—one that didn’t mean much unless you worked in a certain world.

An attractive woman sitting across from Mark, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, glanced up from her laptop and smiled at him.

Even though he worried she might be smiling at someone behind him, he smiled back—more afraid of seeming rude.

Whatever this world was, it felt as alien to him as the other side of the moon. He didn’t dislike it; he just didn’t understand it.

Charity Case

Five minutes later, Mark was escorted to the tenth floor, which seemed to be composed exclusively of conference rooms with views that overlooked either the Atlantic Ocean or the city of Miami. Some were empty; others had smartly dressed people leaning over laptops or staring at charts on video screens.

“Here you go,” his escort remarked as she guided Mark toward a conference room where four people already waited.

As Mark entered, a tall blond woman stood and greeted him.

“Mark Greenley, nice to meet you. I’m Tru Feingold. We spoke via email.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mark replied.

“Why don’t you have a seat over here.” Tru gestured to a spot opposite her and her companions at the conference table.

Tru indicated a man who appeared to be in his late sixties, his face buried in a laptop. “The gentleman behind the screen over there is Nathan Morris. He kind of makes sure that everything keeps going around here.”