Chris Threadgill rolled the sleeves up on his shirt. He was already sweating, and the car's air conditioner was on full blast. How the hell did people live out here, he wondered? It's a fucking desert.

A few conversations with the locals confirmed that people moved to Phoenix, Arizona, because it was, in fact, a desert. "Ever since coming out here," said the lady he'd been buying breakfast from every day, "my sinus problems have cleared right up. No sneezing, no allergies. That's why the old folks are here. Helps their bones. Arthritis."

"And you're saying no moisture and hundred degree heat is a good thing?" he had said.

"Well, it's a dry heat," she said, apologetically.

They all said that. It's a dry heat, over and over, like a mantra. Maybe they were trying to convince themselves, Threadgill mused. They sure as hell hadn't convinced him. Thank god they at least had Starbuck's in Arizona, he thought, as he navigated the expressway to Tempe, one of Phoenix's many self-contained cities that had become suburbs as progress pushed everything together. He had never missed Spokane so much in his life.

Three large Krispy Kreme boxes sat beside him as he drove, and he resisted the urge to dip into them. The donuts were a hard-won peace offering to the Gamesmen staff. In two days, the only person he'd managed to convince that he was on their side was the head of the creative department, Roger Rosloff. This was partially because Rosloff knew that his job was secure. Everyone else was convinced that they were going to be fired, which, technically, was true. The one accountant still on staff hadn't done any of the file transfers she'd been asked to do a month ago, and spent a good portion of the day crying. Everyone else was sullen to hostile. No one wanted to move to Washington. No one wanted to be part of the MageWorks line of games. Never mind that they were centimeters away from bankruptcy, and for the past month, they had been cashing MageWorks checks. Never mind that the company was paying tens of thousands of dollars to move the company and its employees.

To his credit, Threadgill was initially sympathetic. Only the creative staff was going, so there wasn't very much motivation for the rest of the employees to stay. The two guys who ran the warehouse and the skeleton office staff, including Hillary, the weepy accountant, had a pretty good reason to be pissed. However, no one was so pissed off that they stopped coming to work. They just hung around and made surly and rude comments whenever Threadgill was in earshot. This state of affairs resulted in a strange sort of survivor's guilt from the creative staff, and they soon joined in with their brother blue-collar workers in sharing the bad attitude. For two days, Threadgill endured it as best as he could. At the end of the day on Tuesday, he'd had enough.

"Fine, you folks want to give me shit, that's just great. Don't help. I'll move the whole god-damned office myself, and you guys can just sit around and bitch about how much it rains in Washington. You write game modules for a living, and this is the attitude you have. In the real world, companies merge all the time, but you don't see those people moping around. At least we didn't shut you down. Think about it!" He slammed the door behind him.

That night, Threadgill smoked a third of his stash and watched nearly dirty movies on Cinemax. When he was sufficiently calm, he called the CEO of MageWorks and bitched to him for an hour. He got a lot of free advice, and a warning not to lose his cool again.

Now, driving in the next day, he was scared stiff of what was waiting for him. These were a bunch of pale, pasty-looking, out of shape people. They might resent his good looks and natural charm, as they resented the entire situation. On the other hand, his tirade may have scared some sense into them. Threadgill had no way of reading the situation. Well, he reasoned, at least they'll appreciate the donuts. Everyone knew how difficult it was to get Krispy Kreme in the morning.

According to the number of cars in the parking lot, everyone was there, he noted as he pulled into the paved driveway between the two banks of warehouses that faced each other. It was a depressing place to work in, Threadgill thought, when he first laid eyes on it. No feng shui design, harsh fluorescents, tired-looking cubicles, the works. It was a nightmare. No wonder they weren't making any money.

The first person he saw when he walked in was Roger Rosloff. He was wearing the same thing Threadgill had seen him in for the past three days: blue jeans and a knit golf shirt, pulled tight over a pot belly that looked, honest to god, like Rosloff had swallowed a cannonball. He was wearing a strange grin that Threadgill couldn't decipher. Threadgill returned it, puzzled. "'Morning, Roger."

"Hey, Chris," said Roger. "Ooh, cool, Krispy Kreme!" His eyes lit up when he saw the large boxes, then his face fell. "Uh, listen, before you go in there, um, we had a talk about things last night after you, uh, left, and well, they're all, you know, sorry about the way they've been acting. I told them I'd smooth things over with you, so..."

Ordinarily, Roger's peculiar way of pronouncing 's' sounds would have irritated the hell out of Threadgill, but at that moment, it just didn't matter. He didn't know where the sudden contrition came from, but he wasn't going to alter his strategy. In fact, this new development only made it better. "You know, that's funny, because frankly, last night was my fault. Completely. It was, at the very least, unprofessional. But more importantly, it was inhumane. I mean, I really haven't considered your feelings about this. I can completely understand how you might get upset and stay upset. It's a lot to digest." Hogwash, of course, thought Threadgill, because the whole staff had known about the move for almost twelve months. The deer-in-the-headlights look that these people had cultivated was probably the most irritating thing of all.

Roger grinned. "Well, I hope everyone at GameWorks is as understanding as you."

"Come on," said Threadgill, patting him on the back, "let's be the bringers of crack-filled donuts."

"Cool," Roger replied.

In the break room, everyone was gathered together in small clusters. Hillary, the accountant, was already ready to cry, Threadgill noticed. Everyone else wore a variety of expressions from hang-dog to sheepish. "Good morning, everyone," Threadgill said.

Everyone murmured, and no one met his gaze. "Okay, first things first," Threadgill said, setting the boxes down on the table. "Krispy Kreme for everyone, so dig in."

"Are they poisoned?" asked Gabriel, one of the staff writers. That produced nervous laughter, but Threadgill noticed everyone waiting to see what he would say first.

"Not unless you count the addictive chemicals they put in the icing," he answered, which got Threadgill a much larger laugh than he'd expected. The tension broken, everyone swarmed the boxes.

As the Gamesmen staff gorged themselves on sugar, their eyes rolling in donut-induced bliss, Threadgill started. "Listen, gang, I just wanted to apologize for my antics yesterday. It was totally unprofessional, and I shouldn't have taken my frustration out on you."

There were murmurs of "don't worry about it," and "it's okay, we understand," but Threadgill held his hand up.

"No, really, I was a nickel-plated asshole. I was yelling, when I should have been helping. So, here's how it's going to go down for the rest of the week. After I make some phone calls and get a few confirmations about when the trucks are going to get here, I'll be available for any one who needs help with anything. Warehouse, think-tank, whatever. Hillary, I'll even help you with the accounting." He gave her a dazzling smile, and she giggled, dropping donut goo onto her shirt in the process.

There were louder murmurs, this time. "Oh, I'm sure we can do it," and "that's kind, but really..."

"Seriously, folks. I sometimes forget how overwhelming it can be. I had to move our offices across town last year, and let me tell you, it was a nightmare!" Appreciative laughter. "So, I can only imagine what a cross-country move is like. But we're going to find out, together. Just let me know what you need help with. Hell, after the offices are loaded, if any of you need me to come over and help you pack your house, I'll do it!" Raucous laughter, this time, and shouts of approval. At that point, the Gamesmen staff was so buzzing on sugar, they would have agreed to lift the warehouse by hand and carry it to Washington.

"Okay, well, I guess that's it," said Threadgill, checking his watch. "I've got to get on the phone, but I'll stick my head in when I'm done. And then, I'm all yours. Cool?" He left the break room with their affirmations following him close behind. Threadgill, he thought, you're a fucking genius.