Michael Moore lay on a hospital bed as pale as the sheets. On his arm was a blood pressure monitor connected to some kind of machine with a monitor. An IV needle was stuck into his other arm, with a long, thin tube coming off of it. He looked... old. And weak. This was not the strong, energetic CEO of a large corporation, but a man complicated by a sudden, painful illness.
"Hello, Michael..."
Moore looked away from his secretary, who was just explaining something to him, and looked at Lambert, who was standing tentatively in the threshold. He looked at him for about three seconds and nodded for Jack to come inside.
"Shouldn't you be getting ready to go abroad now?" asked Moore. His voice was weaker than usual-quieter than usual-but he could still get people to stand at attention. That's good, thought Jack. Maybe things aren't so bad with Michael yet.
"Go abroad? Do you think on a day like this I would be able to..."
"That's your job."
