Martha Miller sat in a low vinyl armchair by the front window, her work boots flat on the dark carpet while her daughter Daisy slept under a heavy wool coat on the seat beside her.

A small tin box holding Daisy’s paper star collection sat on the armrest next to a thermos of tea.

Spread across Martha’s knees were four collated pages of audited timecards, each line checked in yellow marker against her saved paper stubs.

“He cut four hours off every Friday shift for shop maintenance,” Martha said, her soft voice carrying a brisk edge in the quiet lobby.

“We cleaned the framing bays on our own time after the five o’clock horn, but he billed your main account for full specialist finish labor.”