Eight thirty on the dot,” Mr.

Bellamy said, and the line went dead.

I left the break room and put the manila envelope in my desk drawer, beneath a new pile of bill of lading forms.

My fingertips grazed the red wax seal pressed across the flap, cool and raised under my touch.

David was over by bay three, flapping his clipboards at a backup driver.

He looked at his watch as I made my way back to my desk, but he didn’t ask me anything else.