He reached into his leather bag and took out a stapled packet with a red tag clipped to the top.

“Your replacement starts shadowing your accounts Monday morning,” he said, pushing the packet across the glass.

“Who is it?” I asked him.

“Marcus, from the Denver office,” David said, getting to his feet and shutting both laptops with a loud click.

“He’s already booked his flight.”

I parked my sedan in the gravel driveway of the house I grew up in at seven o’clock.

The evening air was cold and smelled of wet fallen leaves and exhaust.