“These are the vendor tax forms for the fourth quarter,” I said.

“Everything’s reconciled through last Friday.”

Dale laid the wrench down on a red shop towel.

He didn’t bark, and he didn’t reach for his belt buckle.

“I put the paper up on the bulletin board,” he said, nodding at the break room door.

I looked through the wire-mesh glass in the door.

A fresh white sheet of paper was pinned to the corkboard beside the weekly shift schedule.

“Full medical,” Dale said, his low voice sinking nearly to a whisper.