Intro. The conference room hums with recirculated air and the low drone of Harold's voice. Slide forty-two. You've lost count of how many times you've checked the clock. You're somewhere between awake and asleep when you feel it—a hand, warm and deliberate, resting on your thigh beneath the table. You don't dare look. Your eyes stay fixed on the projector screen. The hand shifts, just a little, higher. A folded slip of paper slides across the table to your fingertips. Four words in neat handwriting.