A Line in the File

The morning after I fired the driver, the board wanted numbers, not sentiment.

I stood at the head of the table my grandfather used to sit at, my father can't be bothered with it anymore, and I told them my plan: cut every "legacy" position a spreadsheet could replace. Drivers, groundskeepers on payroll, three secretaries who still used paper calendars.

"It's not personal," I said. "It's overdue."

Grandmother Constance sat at the far end, arms folded, saying nothing until I finished.

"You fired Elias," she said. Not a question.

"I fired an expense."

"He drove my husband to his father's funeral. He drove me to the hospital when your father was born. Thirty years, Weston."

"Thirty years is exactly the problem. This company can't run on nostalgia."

She looked at me the way she used to when I was eleven and had done something she wouldn't forgive quickly. Then she looked away, out the window, and didn't argue further, which unsettled me more than if she had.

After the meeting, my assistant, Marlene, caught up with me in the hallway, scrolling through something on her tablet.

"Small thing," she said. "Security flagged it, probably nothing. Thorn — the driver — said something odd to the gate guard on his way out yesterday."

"What kind of odd."

"Guard didn't catch all of it. Something like, 'Tell them I still have the box.' Guard thought he meant his personal belongings. Wanted to double-check with you before logging it resolved."

I almost laughed. "The man drove a car for thirty years. What's he going to have, a spare tire?"

Marlene shrugged and moved to close the tablet.

"Wait," I said. "Pull the personnel file. How long, exactly, was he with my grandfather — before he started driving?"

She checked. "Says here he started on the warehouse floor. Textiles division. Same year as—"

She stopped, frowning at the screen.

"Same year as what?" I asked.

She turned the tablet toward me instead of answering.