It was my turn so I asked M., who'd had his turn before. He told me where the meetings were being held.

"Go down the hall as far as you can go, basically. And then turn left."

I strode past islands of cubicles of people I never knew, noting the pictures of their kids and the novelty mugs and wilting flowers on their desks. The backs of their strange necks as they endured their interface with the screen. Finally I arrived at the most distant corner of the building, the ultimate point. The Lincoln Conference Room. N. was in there with K., a corpulent human resources manager with too much foundation on her face. Handshakes and hellos, enforced good cheer. N. had a pallor and an unsteady gaze. He seemed to begin many sentences, but only ended two or three. "You're job is being terminated" was one, simple enough, an easy one.