Chapter 1 - THE MISSING MINUTE
I kept my finger on the final sentence of the warning until Curtis Baines stopped pretending to read his email.
"I called dispatch at 4:18 p.m.," I said.
"Dispatch isn't supervision."
"Then why does your policy tell technicians to report delays through dispatch?"
Curtis closed his laptop with the slow precision of someone demonstrating how little power I had.
"Are you refusing to sign?"
"I'm refusing to certify a lie."
He smiled.
"The signature only acknowledges receipt."
"Then put that in writing."
The smile vanished.
Through his glass wall I could see Tasha at her desk, holding a phone to her ear, watching us.
Curtis turned the warning around and placed a pen on top.
"You have an excellent reputation, Caleb, but reputations are fragile."
"So are people stranded beside an interstate in an ice storm."
He leaned forward.
"I have spent eighteen months preparing for a regional promotion."
For the first time, he had said something honest.
"And your seventy-two minutes will be included in my numbers."
"You mean the numbers you sent headquarters before the refrigeration alarm was resolved?"
His eyes sharpened.
"Who told you about those numbers?"
"Nobody. You talk about them every Monday."
The pause lasted too long.
He pushed a second document across the desk.
It was a revised performance ranking.
My name had dropped from first to seventh overnight.
There was a red notation beside it: PROMOTION ELIGIBILITY SUSPENDED.
I felt heat climb my neck.
The lead technician opening had been the reason I spent six years answering emergency calls at two in the morning.
It meant a raise, a steadier schedule, and finally enough money to help my mother replace her failing furnace.
"One warning doesn't make a person ineligible," I said.
"This one does."
"That wasn't in the policy last week."
"Policies evolve."
"Just like reports?"
Curtis stood.
"Get back to work."
When I reached the door he added, almost pleasantly, "And don't make the mistake of thinking doing something nice makes you indispensable."
I didn't answer.
In the corridor, Tasha caught my sleeve and slid a folded service ticket into my hand.
Her face was tight with fear.
"Don't open it here."
I waited until I reached my truck.
Inside were two printouts of the same dispatch entry.
One said I had notified the office at 4:18.
The other said I had never called.
The second printout carried a modification timestamp of 8:41 that morning.
And beneath the change was the employee ID of the person who had edited it.
May you like
Curtis Baines.
