The break room at Oakwood Logistics smelled like stale coffee grounds and heavy industrial floor cleaner.

I was leaning over the stainless steel sink with a damp rag, scrubbing at a ring of dried brown coffee that had baked onto the counter beside the microwave.

Edward walked in with three heavy manila folders under his left arm and set his mug down on the counter near my elbow.

He tapped his black pen twice against his watch crystal before looking down into the sink.

“The plumbing in this part of the building is forty years old,” Edward said.