Brona teleports at my desk. “You keep working.”
“Iamworking,” I answer.
Her eyes track mine. “You’ve met him.”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t get stupid,” she says.
I keep my expression neutral. “I’m not here for romance.”
Brona snorts once and walks off.
The burner my father issued buzzes in my pocket. It’s thin and silent, sealed inside a sleeve that blocks signals unless I open it. Now isn’t the right time, so I don’t answer and work another hour.
I work for another hour. I log mismatches, build a shortlist of recurring drivers, and note which freight agents push for late changes. I draft three questions for Brona that sound harmless and still reveal structure.
At noon, the Spanish agent calls.
I answer on the first ring. “Riley Quinn.”
He speaks fast and warmly and tries to slide past boundaries with charm and pressure. I listen, then cut him off with one sentence. “We can confirm a slot once the amended paperwork clears,” I say.
He protests. I stay quiet. Silence pushes men like him into filling space. He fills it. He gives me details he doesn’t mean to give. I write them down.
When the call ends, Brona watches me from across the room with a look that almost resembles approval.
The work keeps moving.
So does the guilt.
It shows up in small places. It shows up when a driver thanks a yard man for helping him get home on time. It shows up when the medic returns and says the injured worker will keep his wages for the week. It shows up when nobody jokes about the blood on the concrete.
I open my drawer and pretend to look for a pen. My fingers slip into the signal sleeve and open it just enough.
One message sits there.
Report.
No greeting. No softness. My father does not write like a parent. He writes like a man checking a weapon.
I type with my phone hidden under the desk.
First day. Discipline is high. Gate slots run tight. Whiskey lanes are clean. Spanish agent name is Alvarez. He pushes amendments at noon. I have a listof repeat drivers and a pattern of early arrivals that cover late entries. I’ll send details tonight.
I pause before I hit send.
That feels too helpful. It feels too fast.
I delete one line and rewrite it with less. My father likes to be fed, not flooded.
I send.
The sleeve closes. The burner goes dead again.
My hands stay steady on the keyboard, yet my stomach feels wrong.
A chair scrapes near the door.
