The elderly woman took the $10 bill he handed her for the day sitting, her eyes full of quiet sympathy. Abalardo walked back to his empty apartment. It was 7:15 a.m. His shift started at 8:00 a.m. The bus ride took 40 minutes.
He stood by the front door, his hand hovering over the doororknob. He looked at the lanyard sitting on the counter. He didn't pick it up. He took a slow breath, pulled his hand back, and walked over to the blue couch. He sat down.
At 8:30 a.m., his phone buzzed. An automated text from the Kinsley Bates attendance system. You have missed your scheduled punchin. Please contact your shift supervisor immediately. Abelardo put the phone face down on the coffee table.
He stared at the blank television screen. By 9:45 a.m., the silence in the apartment was deafening. He had made a catastrophic mistake. He had trusted a ghost. He stood up, running a hand over his face, trying to figure out if he could still catch the cross town bus and beg his supervisor for half a shift.
The phone rang. It wasn't a text. It was a local number, but not the warehouse prefix. Abalardo picked it up. His palms were sweating.
"Hello, Abalardo Webb," a woman's voice asked. It was crisp, professional, lacking the exhausted draw of the warehouse HR department. Speaking Mr. Webb, this is Beatatric calling from the executive office of Ms. Chia Kinsley.
I have a vehicle waiting downstairs for you. Are you ready to depart? Abalardo walked to the window and pushed two slats of the plastic blind apart. Idling at the curb, taking up two parking spaces in front of the rusted fire hydrant was a sleek black town car. The neighborhood's usual foot traffic was giving it a wide, suspicious birth.
A vehicle, Abalardo repeated numbly. Yes, sir. Ms. Kinsley requested your presence at the central tower. If you need a moment to change, the driver is instructed to wait.
Abalardo looked down at his faded thermal shirt and work jeans. He walked quickly to his tiny closet. He owned one suit. He had bought it at a thrift store 3 years ago for a funeral. It was dark navy, slightly too broad in the shoulders, and smelled faintly of mothballs and old dust.
It was the best he had. "Give me 5 minutes," Abalardo said. "Take your time, Mr. Web. The driver has your destination. " 10 minutes later, Abalardo stepped out of the brick building.