By Todd Honeycutt
When Thatcher walked through the entry doors of the Howard T. Young Company building, he received the same greeting as usual.
“Here for a walking today, Mr. Thatcher?” the receptionist said.
“Sign in and I’ll let them know you’re here.”
He scribbled his name on the electronic pad and took a seat in a corner of the reception area. Aside from the receptionist, no one else was in the room. The décor was sleek—odd waves of overlapping steel and concrete and glass. Thatcher thought it’d be better decorated as a funeral parlor, with lush carpeting and wood panels and clusters of ferns and flowers. Staff dressed in dark colored suits instead of white lab coats.