I'll call a car service, she finally said. The apps are all surging. 45 minutes, maybe an hour. Storms covering the whole metro. He paused.
That's just what I heard on the radio. She pulled out her phone. He watched her check whatever she checked Uber probably or watched her face confirm what he'd said. 48 minutes, she said almost to herself. Yes, ma'am.
She looked around the loading dock, at the folding chair by the wall, at the vending machine with the flickering light, at the steady roar of rain hammering the metal roof. Then she looked at him. Is there somewhere? She started, stopped, started again. Somewhere to wait that isn't this break rooms up front.
It's he started to say decent, which wasn't entirely true. It has chairs. Wonderful," she said flatly. They walked up front together, which is to say he walked four steps ahead of her because that was the sensible pace and she followed, which was not something Victoria Hart looked like she did often follow anyone anywhere. The breakroom had chairs.
It also had a bulletin board thick with OSHA notices, a coffee maker that smelled like it hadn't been cleaned since the Obama administration, and Terrell from Quality Control eating a microwave burrito with the single-minded focus of a man who had nowhere else to be. Terrell looked up, looked at Victoria, looked at Marcus, went back to his burrito without a word, which was the smartest thing Terrell had done all week. Victoria sat down across from the table and Marcus started to drift toward the door. His instinct was always to find work to be useful, to be in motion when her voice caught him. Read.
He turned. How long have you worked here? The question surprised him. Not the words, the tone. There was nothing managerial in it.
It wasn't an assessment. It sounded like someone who was bored and tired and possibly for the first time in a long time genuinely asking. 6 years he said night shift the whole time. Started on nights made shift manager two years ago. I cover both now depending on the week.
She nodded slowly. You like it warehouse management. He almost laughed. Not because it was funny because nobody had asked him that in 6 years. Not Danny Chen.
Not HR, not anyone. I'm good at it, he said carefully. That's not what I asked. He looked at her. She was watching him steadily, not with the sharp evaluating look she'd worn in that rollout meeting, but with something quieter, curious.
I like the systems, he said finally. I like when everything moves right, when the timing's clean and the dock clears before the next truck and nobody gets hurt and everything just flows. He paused. I'm not answering your question, am I? Not really.
No, he said. I don't love it, but I'm good at it, and it pays for what matters. She didn't ask what mattered, but he had the strange feeling she already knew. Terrell finished his burrito, baldled up the wrapper, and left without looking at either of them. The breakroom felt larger without him in it.
Marcus' phone buzzed. He glanced at it. Miss Carol. Ava's asking again, "Honey, everything okay? " He typed back quickly. "On my way soon.
Please keep her up, kid. " Victoria asked. He hadn't noticed her watching him. Daughter, he said. Eight. She's at her babysitters.
You need to go get her. Roads are bad. I understand roads are bad. I'm asking if you need to go. He looked at her.
The storm's supposed to break around 7. I was planning to go. Then she looked at her own phone, checked the Uber app again. Still 40 plus minutes. Then she looked at the window, or rather at the wall because there were no windows in the break room, just the sound of rain against the roof that had, if anything, gotten louder.
Where do you live? She asked. East Point. That's she paused. That's 30 minutes from here in normal traffic.
25 if you know the back roads. Do you know the back roads? Ms. Hart. Victoria, he stopped.
She looked mildly amused at his expression. We're in a breakroom, Reed. You can say my name. Victoria, he said like he was testing the weight of it. My daughter is 8 years old and waiting for me to come home.
I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm not suggesting you are. She set her phone down on the table. I'm suggesting that 48 minutes turns into 90 in a storm surge. And if you're going to East Point anyway, she stopped, looked at the ceiling for a moment, like she was running the numbers on something she wasn't sure about.
I'm in Buckhead. It's on the way. He stared at her. Unless you'd rather sit here until 8:00, she added. You're my regional director, he said.
I'm also a person who would like to not sit in a windowless room eating vending machine food for the next 3 hours. She picked her phone back up. I'll cancel the car service if you're willing. He stood there for a moment. 6 years of warehouse work had taught him to read weight distribution, which pallets were balanced, which were about to tip, which surfaces looked solid but would give under pressure.
She looked solid. He wasn't sure yet if she'd give. I have to stop and pick up my daughter, he said. I understand. She talks a lot.
I'll survive. And I don't live in Buckhead. I live in a three-bedroom house in East Point. That He stopped. He didn't know why he was warning her.
It's not what you're used to. Victoria Hart looked at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. Read, she said. I grew up in a two-bedroom apartment in Baltimore with four sisters and a bathroom door that didn't lock. She stood up, smoothed her blazer.
I'll be fine. They picked up Ava at 6:15. Miss Carol, 64, sharp as wire with reading glasses on a beaded chain and the expression of a woman who had seen everything and was impressed by very little, opened the door, looked at Victoria standing behind Marcus in the rain, and raised both eyebrows approximately 1 cm, which from Miss Carol was the equivalent of a full theatrical response. "Well," she said. "Miss Carol, this is Marcus started.
I know who that is," Miss Carol said. I've seen the Harmon logistics newsletter. Come in out of that rain, both of you. She looked at Marcus with an expression that said, "We will be talking about this later. " And stepped aside. Ava was on the couch in her pajamas, the ones with the small yellow stars a book open on her lap, and her dark braid still perfect from the morning.