I respond immediately.
Not dramatically. Not with a call that ripples through the packhouse or a sudden tightening of faces when orders change. I don’t slam doors or raise my voice or gather people into a room that smells like tension and burnt coffee. There’s no announcement that something is wrong, no signal flare sent up for anyone who might be watching.
I adjust rotations.
It happens while I’m still damp from the shower, towel slung low on my hips, hair dripping onto the collar of a clean shirt I haven’t buttoned yet. Steam still clings to my skin. The bathroom mirror is fogged at the edges, my reflection half-blurred, like I’m already in motion before my body’s fully caught up. I stand at the small desk in my room with one foot hooked around the chair leg, weight settled into my hi
