in her eyes.
The warehouse supervisor had come upstairs for inventory reports and now looked like he wanted to swing at someone.
I closed the box.
“Have a good morning,” I said.
Martin blinked. He expectedpleading. Anger. Maybe tears.
He got manners.
That seemed to annoy him more.
Security walked me to the elevator, embarrassed.
On the way out, I passed the founder’s portrait in the lobby: Arthur Tennant, standing in front of the first factory with his sleeves rolled up and sawdust on his boots.
My grandfather.
The man
