Because after three decades, I knew the overnight operation better than almost anyone.

I liked seeing the trucks loaded.

Checking temperatures myself.

Talking to the people who started work while the rest of the city was asleep.

Apparently Sabrina interpreted that as failure.

My only son, Zachary, stood behind her in the doorway.

Thirty-six years old.

Operations manager at my company.

My late wife Martha’s only child.

And that morning, he looked at me with the expression of a man who knew something was wrong but had already decided silence would be easier.

I wiped water from my eyes.

“Say something to her, Zachary.”

He lowered his gaze.

Nothing.