“You don’t.”
“No.”
“Good.”
His phone rang through the truck.
He answered via hands-free.
A child’s voice filled the cab.
“Dad?”
His face softened instantly.
The CEO noticed.
“Hey, bug.”
“Are you coming?”
“Yep.”
“You said five.”
“We’ll be early.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
The father looked at the CEO.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Customer.”
The child said:
“Tow?”
“Sort of.”
“Is it a cool car?”
The CEO smiled.
The father sighed.
“Ridiculously.”
“Can I see?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“It is with police.”
Silence.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“What did you do?”
The CEO covered her mouth to hide laughter.
The father said:
“Nothing.”
“You always say that when something happened.”
“I’ll explain.”
“Okay.”
Then:
“Can I have pizza?”
“Yes.”
“Can customer have pizza?”
The CEO blinked.
The father looked at her.
“Apparently.”
She whispered:
“Yes.”
The father said:
“She says yes.”
“Is she pretty?”
He nearly drove onto the rumble strip.
The CEO burst out laughing.
The father grabbed the steering wheel harder.
“Goodbye.”
The child giggled.
“Bye.”
The call ended.
The CEO was still laughing.
He stared ahead.
“You find that entertaining.”
“Extremely.”
“She is nine.”
“She is efficient.”
“That is one word.”
For ten minutes, the CEO forgot about remote kill modules.
It was the first normal thing that had happened all afternoon.
They arrived at the after-school center at 4:12.
The father’s daughter ran toward the tow truck carrying a purple backpack.
Brown hair in a ponytail.
Freckles.
Serious gray-blue eyes.
She opened the passenger-side rear door.
Then saw the CEO.
Stopped.
The CEO lifted one hand.
“Hello.”
The child looked at her father.
“You said customer.”