“Thank you, Martha,” I said, folding the paper and placing it inside my coat pocket.
“Everything alright?” she asked, her eyes narrowing with quiet concern.
“Just verifying some dates,” I said.
I walked out of the building and stood on the wide concrete steps, the cold air hitting my face as I pulled my keys from my pocket.
At noon the next day, I found my father sitting in the corner booth of the Oak Ridge Diner, a half-eaten plate of ham and eggs in front of him. The diner was noisy with the lunchtime rush of construction workers and local merchants.
He did not look up when I slid into the vinyl seat across from him.
“You should be at the warehouse,” he said, tapping his knuckles on the laminate table. “Arthur says you haven’t logged the shipping manifests from the northern distributor yet.”
I laid the photocopy of the March nine stock transfer flat on the table between us.
