He gave his heavy leather belt buckle a sharp jerk with his thumb, cinching his belt tight.

“You turned in your keys and walked off my floor Friday afternoon, Becky,” he said.

His voice started out in his usual gravelly bark and got louder with each word.

“I gave you a full two weeks’ notice,” I said.

“You left my shop shorthanded, and now you want special treatment,” Dale shouted.

The three men in the waiting chairs quit talking.

One of them lowered his newspaper to watch us across the little room.