She was not alone.
Catherine stood outside Derek’s office with one hand on her belly and the other wrapped around the same phone she had used on the shoulder of Route 9. Her brown dress was still dusted at the hem from the gravel, and her face had none of the fear Michael had seen on the roadside. This time, she looked calm in a way that made the whole warehouse hold its breath.
Derek came around the desk too fast, bumping his knee against the chair.
‘Ms. Morrison,’ he said, and the name came out thin.
Michael looked at him, then back at Catherine. Morrison. Not a client. Not a visitor. Not some executive passing through for a tour.
Catherine opened the door herself.
The termination form was still on Derek’s desk, Michael’s name printed across the top, the words recurrent tardiness sitting there like a sentence already handed down. Catherine looked at the paper, then at Michael’s grease-streaked pants, then at the red mark across his palm from the tire iron.
No one spoke.
Then she reached into her leather folder and removed one new sheet Michael had never seen before.
It was a printed copy of the morning’s executive meeting agenda, time-stamped 8:00 A.M., with Catherine Morrison listed at the top as owner and chair. Under it was a handwritten note in blue ink: delayed due to roadside emergency, employee assisted.
Derek saw it and swallowed.
Across the hallway, one of the packing-line workers covered her mouth. Another looked straight down at the floor like he could not bear to watch what was happening.
Derek tried to smile, but it collapsed halfway.
‘There may have been a misunderstanding,’ he whispered.
Catherine laid the agenda beside Michael’s termination form, placed two fingers on both papers, and said, ‘Mr. Collins, before you explain company policy to me, you should know exactly who this man helped this morning—and why your next sentence matters.’
Then she turned the termination form toward herself and read the last line aloud…
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