“We load it,” I said. “Every single ounce of the legitimate Aurora cargo.”

“Avery, half the night shift didn’t show up,” Calvin said. “The news reports have them scared they won’t get paid.”

I looked out across the vast, empty warehouse.

The yellow lights hummed overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete floor.

Only five workers were currently on the floor, their hands stuffed in their pockets as they watched us.

“Get them over here,” I told Calvin.

He nodded and blew his whistle, the sharp sound echoing off the metal rafters.

The workers slowly drifted toward our bay, their heavy winter coats zipped up to their chins.

I stood on the edge of the loading dock, looking down at them.

They looked tired, cold, and skeptical.

“I know what the news is saying,” I began, my voice clear in the quiet warehouse.

“They’re saying Northline is going under,” one of the older loaders said. “They’re saying the trucks aren’t safe.”

“My uncle Elliot ran this company for thirty years,” I said. “He never missed a delivery to the state hospitals, even during the blizzard of ninety-seven.”