He answered the fourth call. "Daniel."
"The final consent package is ready," said Celia Ortiz. "The investors in Singapore accepted the revised conditions. London's counsel has cleared the signatures. We can close the Northstar transaction at six your time."
Daniel watched Noah shade in a bright orange sun. "Make it seven."
"We've already moved it twice."
"I know."
"The partners are asking why you're unavailable."
"Tell them I have a family commitment that can't be delegated."
Celia paused. She was one of the few people in the world who could tell when he was speaking in his ordinary voice and when he was covering a difficult emotion with it. "Did something happen at Hale Meridian?"
Daniel considered the folded termination notice in his bag. "They let me go."
For several seconds he heard nothing but the distant murmur of Celia's office. Then she said, "You're joking."
"I'm not."
"Does Victoria know who you are?"
"She knows exactly who she fired. The rest isn't relevant to the decision she made."
"It may become relevant to everything else."
"Later," Daniel said. "Right now I'm boarding a plane with Noah."
He ended the call before she could argue. Noah looked up from the carpet. "Do you really have no job?"
Daniel smiled despite himself. "I have work. More than enough work. But one company decided it doesn't need me anymore."
"Does that happen to people who try hard?"
That question hurt more than the folder had. Daniel could have told his son about the companies he controlled, the voting agreements, the lawyers, the investment committees, and the decisions waiting for his approval on three continents. Instead, he thought of the times Noah had watched him leave the apartment before dawn carrying a lunch in a paper bag. He thought of the ordinary dignity of doing a job well, even when nobody thanked you.
"Sometimes," he said. "Trying hard isn't a guarantee. That's why we also have to be careful, and honest, and kind to people who are having a bad day."
Noah considered this solemnly. "Was that lady having a bad day?"
"Maybe. But that doesn't mean she handled it right."
"Would Grandpa Sam have been mad?"
Daniel touched the key through the fabric of the bag. "Grandpa Sam would probably have told me to take you to Denver and let tomorrow worry about tomorrow."
Their flight began boarding twenty minutes later. Daniel lifted the backpack onto his shoulder, took Noah's hand, and stepped into line with the other families. For a few precious minutes he was not an analyst, not an investor, and not the person holding the decisive signature on a transaction worth billions. He was simply a father helping a little boy count the windows of an airplane.
Sixteen years earlier, before Northstar became a name spoken in private boardrooms, Daniel had watched his father turn the key in a rusted warehouse door on the west side of Chicago. Samuel Carter had owned a small freight company, nothing glamorous: two trucks, twelve employees, and a room above a loading dock that grew freezing in winter. He knew the names of his drivers' children and kept an old coffee pot running all night because the loading teams worked unpredictable hours. When the financial crisis hit, a large customer stopped paying and the bank refused to extend the company's credit line.