As we leaned over the foosball table, lost in our exertions, Dave Song came by and told us hollowly that he'd hit a woman on his bicycle the day before, thought he was going to die. Thought he was gonna go end over end. She was on rollerblades and he thought she saw him; she turned to cross his path and he hit her full speed. She was OK, more or less, and so is he. A couple days later he was called to the reception desk over the intercom and then I saw him escorting a purposeful-looking young black man with a backpack to his desk. He was an ergonomics specialist there to install Dave's special chair. Between bursts of his power drill he spoke into his cell phone in a Jamaican accent.