My Union Representative Asked Who Had Signed For The Missing Tablets

Winston entered carrying a paper cup and a coat with rain on its shoulders.

"Morning," he said. "Before we discuss anything else, Hiroshi gets a copy of every page you put in front of him."

"These are internal working documents," Felicity said.

"Then your copier ought to manage them."

He sat beside me. He wore a brown cardigan beneath his coat, with one button a different shade from the rest. He took a small notebook from his pocket and wrote the time.

Felicity called personnel again.

This time, she used the speaker.

The personnel director, Mara Pike, said the district had found twenty-four tablets absent from storage. A staff member had listed me as the last person seen handling them.

"Which staff member?" Winston asked.

"We aren't sharing witness names at this stage."

"Then write that down as an untested report. Where's the receiving record?"

"There is no approved disposal receipt."

Winston looked at me.

"Did anyone say there was?" he asked.

"No. I signed them out for transport. Felicity approved the routes."

"Temporary evaluation routes," she said quickly. "He was responsible for final disposition."

I had run an embosser, cut bindings, and packed textbooks. I had never approved the sale or destruction of equipment.

Winston asked her to show that duty in my contract.

For a while, the loudest thing in the room was the speaker's soft hiss.

Mara finally said, "We'll review the assignment."

They put me on paid leave. They took my door badge and said I could not contact district witnesses about the investigation.

Winston asked for that instruction in writing, too.

"We will contact people through the proper channels," he said. "Please don't mistake a pause for agreement."

Felicity escorted us through the production room. A stack of braille paper sat open under a vent. I asked to close the wrapper so it would not take on damp air.

"A supervisor can handle that," she said.

I left it open.

That hurt more than handing over my badge.

At home, Winston waited at my kitchen table while I brought out the green folder. Rain streaked the window. Across the street, a city crew sucked wet leaves from a storm drain.

I laid down manifests 0418, 0431, and 0446.

October 6. October 13. October 20.

Eight tablets each.

"Tell me what each signature means," he said.

I pointed to my name.

"Packed and counted."

Then Felicity's.

"Approved release and destination."

The courier driver's signature sat below hers. The destination read: 86 Foundry Lane, Bay 6, Columbus.

The purpose box said EVALUATION / DISPOSAL REVIEW.

"And this empty box?" Winston asked.

"Final recipient. The driver filled that out at delivery. These are the copies left with the shipper."

He nodded.

"So we have the first half of the trip. We need the second half."

I had hoped he would tell me the papers ended everything.

Instead, he put on his glasses and examined the serial-number sheet stapled to each manifest.

"These prove she sent them," he said. "They don't yet prove what happened after. We won't ask them to carry more than they can."

He photographed each page with my permission, then asked me to write what I remembered about the three pickups. Exact words where I could remember them. Nothing dressed up.

I wrote that Felicity had called Bay Six a repair annex.

I also wrote that I had never been there.

Winston sent a preservation request to personnel and the district's lawyer. It named the manifests, loading dock video, inventory changes, courier bills, and every message about the tablets.

He attached copies of the routing pages.

"Why send them our proof now?" I asked.

"Because we're protecting your job, not setting a trap. And now nobody can say they didn't know which records mattered."

At three, he called the courier office listed on the forms. He introduced himself and asked how a shipper could request completed delivery copies.

The clerk gave him an email address and said her manager would need the district account holder's approval.

Winston sent that request through Mara.

Then we waited.

I made tea I could barely taste. I kept seeing the open paper wrapper under the vent.

At five, Mara approved release of the three delivery records to the union and the district lawyer together.

At six, the courier manager called Winston back.

He put her on speaker.

Winston slid his notebook between us. He left room beneath each date for the person who had received the boxes.

"I have the delivery copies," she said. "But you should know the receiving business isn't listed as a district facility."