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room. Nicholle stepped through The Thinker . Riklo didn’t know much about art, although he pretended he did. Nicholle let him have his fantasy.
    Riklo looked up when she approached his desk. He wore last year’s look of slicked-back hair and a skinny tie. As he was tall and wiry, the tie made him look thinner.
    “Nicholle. Good. I just cogged Henri at the Louvre. We’re still in the running but they won’t make a decision until next week. Now as far as the Prado is concerned—”
    “Riklo, I have to leave,” she said.
    “For where, the Louvre? The personal touch. Good thinking.” He shook a finger in her direction.
    “No, the job. I have to leave the job.”
    He gave her a double take.
    “What are you talking about? Did you get a better offer from another museum? I’ll match it. Plus a bonus.” He stood up, boring his knuckles into the exposed wood from underneath a scattered hodgepodge of wi-papers. “You can’t leave me now. We have an exhibit coming up that I’m hoping will raise money from the patrons. Especially Mr. Garampo.”
    A 2D Diego Rivera print hung on the far wall. The Flower Vendor looked at her and Riklo with interest as she sold another batch of calla lilies to a girl in pigtails.
    “My father’s in a coma,” Nicholle said. She sat down and leaned her head back on the chair, browsing the orange and blue bas relief ceiling tile, amazed that she was still coherent after leaving the hospital. The events of the day had left her unable to think beyond basic daily functions.
    “A coma? Fema,” he cursed. “I’m sorry, Nick. I didn’t know,” Riklo said. “How’d it happen?” He sat down in the leather chair and folded his hands across the desk, like a first-grader waiting for recess.
    “The doctors don’t know. They can’t say when he’ll come out of it.” She neglected to mention the living will stipulation. It was enough of a nightmare. She didn’t want to relive it. “The head of IT asked me to take over as acting president, for the time being, until my brother gets back from out of town.” If he gets back.
    “Can you handle that, with everything going on?” He sounded condescending , as if eager to hear a no in reply.
    “It’s not about me anymore. If I don’t go, the company may lose more jobs than if I do go. Believe me, I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t think I had to.”
    Riklo may have had no sense of art, but he was a decent boss. He’d been given the job by his father, who owned the museum, so it wasn’t as if he would be fired if he didn’t meet the bottom line.
    “It’ll be a lot of stress, crazy clients, dumb employees, inept management.” One side of Riklo’s mouth turned down. “Look, I’ll just give you family leave. If it doesn’t take longer than six months, your job will be here when you return.”
    It made more sense than quitting. “Thanks, Riklo. I really appreciate that. I’ll hand my files over to Reya,” Nicholle said. She smiled at him, then left.
    b
    Reya wasn’t in her office and Nicholle didn’t feel like cogging, so she uploaded her instructions on the upcoming Yebedor exhibit and saved it to Reya’s node. Nicholle was sorry she would miss opening night. The exhibit was a social commentary piece illustrating the growing divide between the classes. She had studied Yebedor in college and admired his work. When she lived on the street, the meaning behind the paintings became clear. Funny that—a revelation through a pakz-induced high in which all the world’s issues were solved in a moment’s thought. And then with soberness came crushing reality.
    The transition to corporate life would unsettle her, she knew. Remembrances of boring meetings, angry shareholders, and disgruntled employees flitted across her mind. She forced the thoughts from her head.
    This time it will be different.
    Riiight.
    She was going to pack her things, but decided to leave them. She’d be back. Small though it was, her office held a lot of good