Chapter 5 - Permission in the Pantry
The next afternoon I was in the pantry restocking cans. It was the narrow room off the kitchen with the same dark cabinets and the warm light strip buzzing low under the shelf. The marble was cold through my flat shoes. I liked it in there because the door was half-closed and nobody watched me count labels.
I had soup cans lined up by size when I heard his shoes stop behind me. I didn't jump this time. I just kept my hands moving.
"Lena," Daniel said. His voice was low, calm. "Can I ask you for something?"
I turned. He was in a gray T-shirt now, not the black shirt from that night, but the gold watch was still on his wrist. He held his own phone down at his side, not up like a threat.
I nodded. My throat felt dry.
He stepped in but left space, leaning one shoulder against the shelf. "I need to see what the agency actually pays you. Not what I'm billed. What you get. Is there a pay portal? An app?"
My hands stilled on a can of tomatoes. "We have BrightNest," I said. "On our phones. It shows shifts and pay stubs."
"Could you screenshot your last stub for me? Just send it to my number. No one else would see it."
The air in the pantry felt suddenly too warm. I put the can down carefully so it wouldn't clank. I remembered signing at the agency office off the highway, the woman sliding papers fast across the desk. No copies outside the app. No sharing pay details. Five hundred dollar penalty for breach. I hadn't understood it then. I understood it now as a lock.
"I can't send it," I said quickly. Too quickly. "They said if we share it we get fined. It was in the contract."
He frowned, but not angry. "You read that clause?"
"I signed it," I said. "The lady said it was standard. For privacy." My fingers picked at the edge of my apron. "I need this job, sir. I send money home. If they flag me—"
"I won't let them flag you," he said. Then he stopped himself. He breathed out. "Sorry. I can't promise that yet. But I wouldn't show your name to anyone without you saying yes."
I looked at the rows of cans I'd just straightened. My cap felt tight on my head. I thought about the rice on the floor that night, and his face when he kneeled down. He hadn't yelled. That counted for something.
I pulled my phone from my apron pocket. My hands were shaking a little. "I can show you," I said. "Just look. I won't send."
He nodded once. "That's enough. Thank you."
I opened BrightNest. The login took a second. The white screen loaded with my name, LENA M., ID number, then PAY HISTORY. I tapped March. The stub came up plain and small.
Gross pay: $1,400.00. Net pay: $1,400.00. No tax line. No overtime, even though I'd worked six days most weeks.
I held it out, tilted toward him, my thumb over the edge of the screen like I could take it back fast. He bent a little to read it. He didn't touch my phone.
"Fourteen hundred," he said quietly, almost to himself. "For how many hours that month?"
"Two hundred and ten?" I said. "I check in and out on the app. I don't— I didn't count until now."
His jaw tightened. He looked from the screen to my face. "Can I—"
My phone buzzed in my hand. We both froze.
A text banner dropped from the top over the pay stub. BRIGHTNEST COORD: Hi Lena! Quick check-in completed today? Reply YES. Let us know if client asks about pay.
The blood left my face. My thumb slipped and the screen went dark. I stared at the black glass.
"He saw—" I whispered. "She saw I opened the pay page, didn't she? They can see?"
Daniel straightened. "Hey. It's just an automated check-in text. They send those every day."
"No," I said. My breathing came short. "Not with that last part. They never add that last part." I shoved the phone back into my pocket like it was hot. "I have to reply. If I don't reply they call Mr. Reyes— they call you— and ask to replace me."
"Okay," he said. "Reply. Reply YES."
I typed it with stiff fingers. YES. Sent. The pantry light hummed.
He watched me, serious and still. "I saw it, Lena. Fourteen hundred. That's what I needed for now. I won't ask you to forward it."
I nodded, but I couldn't look at him. The shelves pressed in on both sides, soup and rice bags and extra paper towels. I felt stupid for being scared of a text, and more scared because I wasn't stupid.
"Please don't tell them I showed you," I said.
May you like
"I won't," he said. "Not without your permission."
The door to the kitchen was still half-open. The marble out there was bright and clean. I picked up another can to have something to do with my hands, and waited for him to leave first.
