My old desk behind the counter was still stacked with unpaid work orders from Friday, and the grease stain where Dale had kicked the oil drum had crept toward the tire rack.

When he saw me come in, he got up, came around the counter, and pulled a folded white envelope out of his shirt pocket.

He stopped three feet away, his left hand working his leather belt buckle.

“I had my lawyer write this up this morning,” Dale said, his gravelly voice sinking to a low whisper so the customer in the corner chair couldn’t hear.

“You left my shop shorthanded, Becky, and now you want special treatment on your last pay stub.”