My phone began to vibrate in my palm again, the screen changing to an incoming call.

It was my father.

I stepped away from the edge of the dock, walking toward the small, glass-walled office at the back of the bay.

The air inside the office was slightly warmer, smelling of old coffee and radiator dust.

I pressed the phone to my ear. “What do you want?”

“I assume you’ve seen the news,” my father said.

His voice was smooth, completely unaffected by the static on the line.

“I’ve been a little busy running a logistics company,” I said.

“Not for much longer,” he replied. “The local affiliates are already running pieces on Northline’s supply chain issues.”

“You put them up to that,” I said, looking through the glass at Calvin, who was now shining a flashlight into the back of the first truck.

“The public deserves to know if critical medicine is being delayed by incompetent management,” my father said. “Especially during a blizzard.”

“We aren’t delaying anything,” I said.

“You are understaffed, underfunded, and Elliot’s estate is tied up in probate,” he said. “The board of the medical depot in Aurora is already panicking.”