"October 3rd," Arthur continued, flipping a page on his clipboard. "Rideshare. Forty-two dollars. Client meeting or personal use?"
"I don't remember—"
"Then you'll need to submit an affidavit."
"Awhat?"
"Manager confirmation. Resubmission queue."
Another compliance training popup layered itself over the retraining module on Chad's screen, this one with an unskippable quiz every three minutes.
Chad sat back down.
Gripped his piece of wilted kale like it was proof he still belonged to the world.
April saved the file:Chad_Bottleneck_Map_Final.xlsx
Chad sat in his glass office, door open, visibility mandatory, staring miserably at that kale.
April felt it rising in her chest: glee, bright and sharp. It felt wrong for half a second. Like she was supposed to be sad, supposed to be processing. Supposed to be the bigger person.
But this was the universe returning his energy with interest, so she let the grin free.
Ten minutes later, her phone buzzed. She glanced at it while Arthur catalogued Chad's October rideshare receipts.
Laura:I have a bad feeling.
Laura:You've been radio silent for two hours.
Laura:This means you're either: (a) fine and forgot to text, or (b) doing something stupid.
Laura:Please confirm (a).
April typed quickly under the desk.
April:might do something stupid
Laura:Define "stupid."
Laura:1) haircut
Laura:2) email reply-all
Laura:3) quit your job mid-sentence
Laura:4) felony
Laura:5) Marry your boss
April:...
Laura:I notice you did not say "haircut."
Laura:April.
Laura:Please confirm you are not about to do 5.
Laura:Or 4. But mostly 5.
