Realpolitik, 2025.

Russ bobbed around the cornerless office wearing a chicken suit and proclaiming loudly, “I’m the biggest cock in the world!”

Don chuckled every time he said it. “Flap your arms, Russ!” he cried out, getting up and demonstrating. Don had a real knack for the chicken-walk, and Kristi said so from across the room where she was playing strip-poker with Corey. “He should wear the suit,” Mike said from the craft table, making a bologna sandwich.

“It won’t fit him,” Russ protested. “And it’s mine anyhow. I had it made up, special.” He tore the Velcro neck-cover away and showed the sewn-in label along with the sharpie-scrawl of his full Christian name beneath.

“It’s okay, Russ,” Don said. “But you could use some practice. You’ve got the voice down, but you have to have more waggle and definitely more flapping.”

Karoline poked her head in to tell Don he had to get ready for his three o’clock, which set Pete off shouting, “I’m the world’s biggest three o’cock!” in the hall behind her. Karoline told him to cork it. “Keep it in the special room, no leaks!” That shut Pete up.

An hour later, Marco walked in the special room and found it empty. The card table had a couple wardrobes’ worth of clothes draped on the chairs, and there were a few loose feathers swaying across the coffee table with the breeze from the door, but nobody was home. He checked his watch, which said five-to-three. “Where the hell are they?!” He darted down the hall and started asking the staff, but nobody knew.

In the ballroom, wading through the rubbery plastic orbs, Marco found Robert. “Where is Don? We were supposed to have a three o’clock,” he said, pointing at his watch.

“They went to get him fitted for a duck suit. They told me to tell you they moved your three o’clock to five.”

“They don’t know how to send an e-mail?!” Marco said in a huff that sent Robert hiding under the balls. “Sorry, Robert. I know it’s not your fault. You have your hands full with whatever you’re doing in here.”

Robert timidly poked his head up. “It’s okay, Marco. I’m checking how many microplastics these things make. It could be they cause—” But Marco had already walked out of the ballroom, a few loose balls rolling into the hall from the open door in his wake.

Robert churned his way through the balls to the door, where he snatched the runaways from the hall before diving back in. Stephen, who had been asleep on one of the banquet tables, rolled over and said, “Will you keep it down? Some of us have work to do!” In a huff, he fluffed his pillow and rolled back over.

Five o’clock came and went, with Marco sitting in the dark in one of the meeting-rooms, playing solitaire on his mobile. At six, he swiped over to the phone app and called Pamela. “I’ve been here for three hours, and they’re still out,” he complained as she answered.

Pamela was in a meeting on the other side of town, so she held up her hand to silence her colleagues, and told Marco, “I know it hurts, but hang in there, buddy! You’re doing great. We’re all doing really great things!” She hung up and pointed to the young woman she’d cut off. The woman continued talking about her pumpkin-spice oatmeal kissel recipe.

Marco went back downstairs, and tried to find anyone who could tell him when Don would get back.