“Garrett’s looking at last year’s numbers,” Tiffany said, leaning in with an oily, sweet lilt.

“We changed those routes in July, honey.”

The lead buyer, a thirty-year-old in a spotless blue tie, shifted in his chair and looked down at his yellow legal pad.

“July came in at thirty-four thousand miles,” I said.

“I signed off on the fuel receipts myself.”

“You’ve been working so hard, sweetie,” Tiffany said, reaching over to pat the back of my hand.

“The doctor told us both that overwork can make the dates run together.”