For almost five minutes, Miles sat at the conference table completely slack-jawed. Then, realizing how he must have looked, he snapped his hand up to his mouth and slowly, stealthily, perched his chin on his fist, looking as thoughtful as he could manage. The man in the blue dress shirt was becoming irate.
“No! No, no, no. You can't put it on the back. Can you imagine the liability if someone who needed it didn't know it was there? Besides, we need to place it prominently for advertising.”
The man in the yellow tie was becoming uncharacteristically animated himself, swinging his hands in increasingly violent gestures.
“That's what terms of service are for. You want to talk about liability-” He scoffed. “How about someone who uses it by accident or doesn't know what it means? We're talking litigation costs that will drive this company,” here he paused to point wildly at the table, “Into. The. Ground.”
After a brief, tense silence they both turned to look at Miles simultaneously. His shoulders crept up towards his ears. “I don't know.” He glanced at the door. “Does it really need a self-destruction button?”
Later that afternoon, after he had “gathered his things,” Miles found that he couldn't fit them all in the box they'd given him.