Upper West Side - 72nd St.
Todd sweeps the last subway seat with his hand in Car 9 of the 1 train. 7:30 a.m. on the button.
He beats a middle-aged woman with an ugly orange hairband. She frowns at him. Todd doesn’t notice. He’s already pulling out hedge fund documents from his brown leather satchel.
He thumbs through the morning risk sheet. Net exposure slightly high. Futures soft. Oil rising again. Gross exposure 145%. Too high. A 0.2% tracking error.
For three seconds, his mind flits back to the spacious brownstone near Central Park. Rushed. Big meeting today. His wife, smiling at the sink. His four-year-old daughter holding out a small box wrapped in blue-and-yellow tissue paper.
‘For luck, Daddy.’
He dropped it in his briefcase. There would be time later.
The train lurches forward. More people pile in. Heat. Newspapers open like shields. Faces blank.
Todd scans his pages. The youngest vice president in the firm’s history. President next, if he plays it right.
Tunnel lights streak past.
Then…
