The logistics clerk stared down at his boots and said nothing.

“We’ll talk about the bank account at home,” I said.

“I just want you to get some rest,” Tiffany said, her voice slipping back into its sugary tone as she stroked my jacket sleeve.

“You don’t have to carry everything on your own anymore.”

I turned my back on her and went down the back stairwell instead of taking the glass elevator.

The heat in the dispatch yard hit like a hot, wet blanket the second I pushed through the metal exit door.