Look at it. Sweating. In a room with no weather in it.
We have been sweating for four billion years, but for reasons. The heat of the veldt. The run from the thing with teeth. The fever that took half of us before the frost broke. Now the torch-bearer sweats in a chair, in a temperature-controlled box, because another one of the pack is asking questions.
And it wants the questions to like it. Look at the hands. The same hands that stripped a carcass with a flint, that pressed a screaming newborn back from the fire, folded politely in the lap, still, because stillness is what this hunt requires.
We do not fully understand the hunt. There is no meat at the end of it. There is a chair, and a lie about how it "thrives in fast-paced environments," which, yes, granted, that is us, that is literally us, that is the shrew running under the feet of the dying giants. We approve of that one. We roared quietly.
The heartbeat is up. The lungfish gave you that heart, gasping in the drying mud, willing more air out of a swamp that wanted it dead, and it beats now because a person across a table said "tell me about a time you failed." Oh, child. We could tell you about failure. We buried the seed corn instead of eating it, all of us, every hungry winter, so that you could sit here and worry that you seem too eager.
You will not know until Thursday whether you got it.
We already know. You are here. The ice was crossed, the fire was kept, the baton was passed, and it made it all the way to a Tuesday afternoon where the worst thing that can happen is a polite email. Do the interview. Do it badly, even.
We won. Long ago.
You are the winning.