Chapter 14
I woke before the alarm I'd set on his office microwave. Four fifty-two. The warehouse was that blue hour before the overheads came on, the kind of dark where the concrete still held yesterday's cold. My coat was folded over the cot he'd let me keep one more night, not wrapped around me. I didn't need it that way anymore.
I laced my sneakers, not the heels, and went to the aisle I'd been counting. Clipboard where I'd left it. Pen clipped to the top. Aisle seven, bay three through six. I had left off at the third shelf of canned tomatoes, cases of twenty-four. I started again from the top of that stack to be sure.
The work was quiet and it steadied me. I counted, I wrote, I ran my hand along the cardboard to straighten the edges where boxes had been pulled and shoved back uneven. My count had to match what would be in the system later, but the straightening was just for me. I wanted to leave it better than I'd found it. Swept the concrete with the push broom from the utility closet, got the dust that collected around the pallet feet. I checked the expiration dates as I went and turned one case that had been loaded backwards so the lot code faced out.
He came in at five thirty. I heard the side door, then his keys, then the click of the office light. He didn't call out. He knew I was there.
By six fifteen I was on the last bay. He stood at the end of the aisle with two paper cups of coffee. He waited until I capped my pen.
"You didn't have to finish that," he said.
"I wanted to," I said. "I'm almost done. Twenty minutes."
He nodded and set one cup on a pallet at my height. "Take your time."
I finished the count, totaled the columns twice, and clipped the sheets together. The aisle looked different now. Aligned, swept, labels out. It felt like proof I could do a thing start to finish and not make a mess of it.
I carried the clipboard to the office. He was at the desk writing. The heels were by the side door where I'd left them. I'd wiped them clean the night before with a damp rag from the sink, beige leather again instead of concrete dust. They sat side by side, toes pointing straight, clean enough to be store-ready. I hadn't decided if I was taking them yet.
He slid a single sheet of paper across the desk toward me. Plain white printer paper.
"Verification letter," he said. "For county."
I picked it up. It was short. Five lines, typed.
To Whom It May Concern: Margo [Last Name] performed inventory and warehouse organization at this facility from [dates]. Tasks included case counting, shelf organization, and general aisle maintenance. She was punctual, thorough, and worked independently. Contact me for verification.
Below that his name, the warehouse name and address, his phone number. No adjectives. No promises.
"It's accurate," he said. "I didn't add anything they could check and find false."
I felt my throat get tight because it was better than if he'd puffed it up. "Thank you. This is exactly what they need. Dates are right."
He tapped the dates. "I kept it to what you actually did. If they call, I'll say the same."
I folded the letter in thirds and put it in my bag, on top of my folder so it wouldn't crease.
He leaned back. "You left the switch off."
I looked toward the blue rack where the red indicator glowed faintly in the dim. The wall switch with the little red light I'd stared at that first morning.
"I remembered you said it controls the far row," I said. "You told me to leave it off unless you said. I didn't touch it after that first night."
"I noticed," he said. "Most people would flip everything on when they clean."
"I didn't want to reset anything, or run power where you didn't want it. It felt like your space. I was just in it."
He was quiet for a second. Then he said, "You respected it. I appreciate that."
It wasn't a big conversation. It didn't need to be. It was about a switch, and it was about the whole stay. That I'd asked, that I'd listened, that I hadn't taken more than offered.
I zipped my bag. The cot was stripped, blanket folded. The broom was back in the closet. The clipboard with the inventory sheets sat squared on his desk.
"I'll be outside at seven for my ride," I said. "I'll leave the coat on the cot unless you want it somewhere else."
May you like
"Leave it there," he said. "We'll figure it out when you get back."
I nodded. The heels by the door caught the office light. Clean, paired, waiting for me to decide.
