Not about you.
About Alejandro.
He is still on-site, which is rare enough to feel like weather. Owners don’t usually walk the floor twice in two days. They don’t sit in meetings with line managers. They don’t tour loading bays with safety compliance officers. They certainly don’t stand in the cafeteria at lunch with a clipboard while workers stare into their plastic trays like farm animals sensing a helicopter.
Marisol drops into the seat across from you carrying a plate of rice and beans. “Did he get divorced or something?”
You blink. “What?”
She jerks her chin toward the cafeteria entrance. Alejandro is speaking quietly with Deborah and the head of operations. He isn’t eating. He is listening. That alone makes him look alien among executives.
“I’m serious,” Marisol says. “Rich men only show up like this when they’re running for office, sleeping with somebody on payroll, or trying not to get sued.”
You stab at your overcooked vegetables. “Maybe he likes warehouses.”
She narrows her eyes at you. “You know something.”
“No, I don’t.”
That part, at least, is true in spirit. You know what happened to you. You have no idea what is happening to him.
At 3:20 p.m., Rogelio calls everyone together near dispatch.
He looks annoyed, which makes the entire line pay closer attention. Rogelio only looks this annoyed when forced to say something he didn’t invent.
“New policy update,” he says, reading from a printed memo like the paper personally insulted him. “Emergency transportation vouchers for employees facing unsafe commuting conditions. Voluntary confidential review available through HR. Expanded locker access. Shower availability extended. Meal assistance in qualifying cases. All requests go direct to HR, not through supervisors.”
A low murmur moves through the group.
You feel it before you understand it. Not the words themselves, but the shockwave. Workers glance at one another, then at Deborah standing near the back wall, then toward the mezzanine where Alejandro is observing without interrupting. Nobody says your name. Nobody knows. But something invisible has shifted across the whole floor because one powerful man walked into the wrong aisle at dawn and saw what everyone else had managed not to see.
Marisol leans close and whispers, “What the hell happened yesterday?”
You keep your face blank.
Inside, something raw and electric opens in your chest.
For the first time in years, you are terrified of being noticed and relieved by it at the exact same time.
Part 2
The first time Alejandro speaks to you alone after the hotel, it is not in an office.
It is beside loading dock three just after the evening shift, while forklifts beep and reverse under a sky the color of old steel. He has shed the suit again and is wearing dark slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, as if he wants to prove he understands labor because he has forearms. Ordinarily that kind of gesture would annoy you. With him, somehow, it looks less like performance and more like a man who forgot clothes could be symbolic.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says.
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