“My clock was running slow,” I said.

He took a red ballpoint pen from his front pocket and drew a heavy line across the bottom of the morning shift log.

“That’s your second late arrival in three weeks,” he said.

“Brenda gets the morning register drawer today.”

I rubbed my left thumb across my right knuckles and felt the dry skin scrape.

“Brenda doesn’t know the codes for the farm diesel tax exemptions,” I said.

“Brenda got here nineteen minutes early,” the district man said.