Chapter 1

Ryan tore the slip into four pieces and threw them in my face.

“You’re just logistics. You think you deserve to sit here?”

I stood still without moving.

The scraps fell beside my feet, and two pieces landed on the tops of my dress shoes.

I lowered my head to look, then bent down and picked them up one by one.

Ryan let out a laugh. “Still picking them up? What are you going to do after you pick them up? Tape them back together and keep sitting there?”

I said nothing.

He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and lifted his chin toward the desk in the corner. “From now on, you sit there.”

That was the spot right by the restroom door.

The desk was an old model from twenty years ago, its surface full of dents, and one drawer handle had fallen off.

That spot had been empty for three years, and no one wanted to sit there, so it had become a corner for piling junk.

There were thirty-seven people in the office, and no one raised their head.

I saw Ethan staring at his computer screen, his fingers clattering rapidly over the keyboard.

Martin raised his mug toward his mouth, his eyes looking at the sky outside the window.

Kyle, who sat at the workstation across from me, buried his head very low, leaving only the tips of his ears visible.

I clenched the scraps of paper I had picked up in my palm and walked over to that broken desk.

A layer of dust had settled on the tabletop.

I put down my bag and went to the restroom to find a rag.

As I passed Ryan’s office door, it was open, and he had one leg crossed over the other while talking on the phone in a loud voice.

“Don’t worry. What trouble can a logistics guy cause? I’m trying to establish authority, and this kind of pushover is perfect for it.”

I stood at the restroom entrance washing the rag, and the water was very cold.

When I came back, I wiped the desk clean, and the chair creaked when I sat on it.

He stood by the water dispenser and turned back to Harold from Finance. “Logistics people are tough. Give them anything, and they’ll use it.”

Harold smiled but did not respond.

In the afternoon meeting, Ryan chaired the meeting.

Everyone in the department sat in the large conference room, while I sat on a plastic stool in the last row by the door.

The projector showed the quarterly report, and Ryan stood at the front talking about next year’s budget.

Halfway through, he stopped and tapped the projection screen with the laser pointer.

“For logistics, this year’s office expenses exceeded the budget by fifteen percent. Who signed off on that?”

No one spoke.

His gaze swept around the room and landed on me. “Logistics is under you, right? What’s going on with the expenses?”

I stood up. “Last year’s computer purchase was approved by Manager Brooks, eight units in total, and it went through a special budget.”

“Manager Brooks was transferred, but the accounts stayed. Special budget, special budget—does that mean it can go over?”

He slammed the folder onto the table.

“By tomorrow, sort out every purchase list and reimbursement receipt from logistics for the past three years and put them on my desk before the end of the workday.”

I said, “All right.”

When the meeting ended, Kyle passed by me and lowered his voice. “Walter, he’s clearly picking on you on purpose.”

I did not make a sound.

I returned to my workstation and turned on the computer.

When the screen lit up, it flickered twice and let out a buzzing sound.

I dug out all the accounts from the past three years from the cabinet and stacked them on the desk one book at a time until the pile was half as tall as a person.

At seven in the evening, everyone in the office had left.

The light in Ryan’s office was still on, and he was on the phone with someone, laughing loudly.

I sat at my old spot by the restroom entrance and flipped through the reimbursement forms from the third year.

At eight-thirty, he came out carrying his bag and stopped when he passed me.

“You still haven’t left?”

“Almost done.”

He lowered his head and looked at the documents I had sorted out, then kicked the top folder with his foot.

“Put it on my desk on time tomorrow. Not one minute late.”

I said, “Got it.”

He left.

I finished organizing the forms and locked them in the drawer.

When I stood up, my waist felt a little sore, and I checked the time: nine-forty.

The hallway lights were off, and I felt along the wall as I walked to the elevator.

When I got home, my wife still had not gone to bed.

She asked why I was home so late, and I said I had worked overtime.

She did not ask more and went to the kitchen to heat up food for me.

I sat on the sofa and took the four scraps of paper out of my pocket.

When I pieced them together, three characters were written on them: No. 12.

The spot by the window was No. 12.