A printer hums under the desk. A paper badge slides out with my alias printed across it in neat black letters. The clearance strip is red, limited access only. Perfect.
She offers it to me with a polite nod. “Please wear this on you at all times while inside the facility. Someone will be with you shortly.”
I pin it to my shirt and take a deep breath. So far, so good. Rivera stands near the entrance, hands in his jacket pockets, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert. He gives me a slight nod. It’s a silent reminder. He’s here and looking out for me.
He doesn’t move from his spot, and I don’t blame him. The man is doing what Slate asked him to do. Guard me and protect me, to the best of his abilities. Unfortunately, I need more than protection. I need answers and to be the kind of person who helps solve problems instead of the kind of person who hides from them.
A door on the left opens and a man in a navy suit wearing a Hydro Relief badge steps out. Everything about this man screams middle management. Neat shirt, tired eyes. He introduces himself as Mr. Hanley and reaches for my hand with a firm grip.
“Ms. Morris? I can spare fifteen minutes if that works for you.”
“That’s perfect,” I say.
I see in my peripheral vision that Rivera’s gaze follows me as I walk with Hanley down the bright white corridor. I keep my chin up, my breath steady, and my mind sharp. I’m here for a reason. And I intend to find it.
Hanley leads me down a polished hallway lined with framed photos of disaster relief efforts. There are smiling volunteers, clean water stations and tents with Hydro Relief banners in front of devastated landscapes. The images are curated for comfort, meant to paint the company as heroic.
I keep my steps even with Hanley and pay attention as he runs through the basics of what his company does. He talks about natural springs, shipping volume, and regional partners. He speaks with a practiced tone and seems to know what he’s talking about.
We reach a viewing window overlooking what looks like a clean room. It’s set up on a wide warehouse floor. Rows of metal shelves hold boxes stacked in neat rows. Workers in reflective vests scan barcodes and seal crates. Everything looks efficient and the floors are clean enough to eat off. I watch a conveyor belt carrying small water filtration kits, the same brand I saw in Kabul years ago. The sight gives me a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. It seems almost like a reminder of something buried in the dark recesses of my memory.
“We handle most of our regional distribution here,” Hanley explains, pivoting easily from one point to the next. “Emergency supplies, sanitation units, and filtration systems can be packed together or individually. When disaster strikes, we can mobilize within hours.”
I nod, trying to look impressed instead of suspicious. “That’s an impressive response time. Do you coordinate with overseas teams too?”
He hesitates half a beat before answering. “Only on the logistics side. Field operations are handled through contracts we don’t manage out of this site. This facility focuses on domestic distribution only.”
His tone stays pleasant but guarded. I recognize the tone. It’s the one people use when they’re not telling the whole story.
We move towards a small operations room where desks line the walls. A young woman stands near a whiteboard with a bunch of acronyms and numbers scribbled across it. One column catches my eye. There is a repeated phrase—central dispatch. The words pull up a memory, something from Kabul I wondered about before everything went dark.
I step closer as though I am just curious. “Is that shipping coordination?”
Hanley shifts subtly to block my view. “It’s internal coding, nothing relevant to the tour.”
He’s telling another lie and he’s not good at being deceitful. I catch sight of another detail behind him. A clipboard hanging on the wall. The top sheet lists a vendor name—Carewell Transit in bold block letters. The hairs rise on the back of my neck. It’s another name in my notebook. I remember seeing it on the manifest that never made sense. I remember the day I confronted a REACH coordinator in Myanmar who brushed me off hours before the blast that left me in a coma.
I force my voice to sound calm and steady. “Your vendor list must be extensive. How do you handle so many partners?”
He gives a polite smile. “We streamline communications through a central network. It keeps things efficient.”
He doesn’t elaborate because this is just a tour. It’s the kind of information that might be explained in more detail during an initial consultation.
Hanley continues the tour as though nothing happened. A few more rooms. A tech station. A storage hall that smells faintly of plastic and cardboard. My eyes drift to the far end of the corridor. There’s a door marked ‘Authorized Personnel Only’. The metal around the lock is unmarked, the keypad seems newer than anything else in the building.
Hanley doesn’t even glance at it as we glide past.
“What’s through there?” I ask lightly. “Is it a testing site where you check water purity or something like that?”
“That area is restricted. It’s actually used for equipment staging. It’s not part of the tour.”
He moves on quickly, but the answer sticks in my head as a potential issue for closer scrutiny. Restricted sections in companies like this aren’t unusual, but the tension in his voice was indicative of some sort of issue.
We finish the loop back towards the lobby. Hanley’s smile returns, almost instantly. He also seems relieved for some reason. Me? I’m excited, curious, and determined to find out more information. I know I found something. I just don’t know quite what it is yet.
Turning to him, I give him my best million-megawatt smile. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Hanley. You have an amazing facility. Everything is so nice and clean. I’ll be sure to tell my colleagues about what fine work you do.”
He nods and his entire body relaxes. “If your organization wants to schedule a longer tour, we’d be happy to carve out some time for you.”
