The paring knife fell straight to the linoleum floor, hitting with a loud clatter and rolling up against the baseboard by the stove.

I didn’t bend down to pick it up.

The clock over the coffee pot at the gas station said twenty after six when I pushed through the double glass doors Monday morning.

The district manager was standing right behind register two with a bright blue corporate binder open on the counter in front of him.

Carl Vance stood three feet to his left, tapping his wooden clipboard against the side of his leg with a flat, steady smack.

“You’re twenty-two minutes late, Ona,” the district man said without lifting his eyes from the page.