The rain was hitting the corrugated roof of the loading dock with the rhythmic persistence of a 27-year-old heartbeat, loud enough to swallow the sound of the idling forklifts. Miller was pacing, his face the exact color of a 17-day-old bruise. He was clutching a clipboard as if it were a life raft, his knuckles white against the aluminum. ‘It’s a simple order, Elias!’ Miller shouted, his voice cracking under the pressure of the 47-minute delay. ‘I hired you because you were a Marine. I expected discipline. I expected you to get these trucks moving the way I told you, not to stand there and tell me why the route is blocked!’

Elias didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. He stood with a posture that wasn’t stiff so much as it was grounded, a human anchor in the middle of Miller’s storm. He waited for a 7-second gap in the yelling before he spoke. ‘Sir, the plan is failing because the bridge on Route 67 is washed out and the secondary yard is at 107 percent capacity. If we send these drivers out now, we lose 37 crates of perishable goods to heat exposure within two hours. Request permission to execute contingency Bravo: redirect to the rail spur and staged unloading.’