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For two years, people had offered me signatures as if ink could travel backward in time and change what happened when nobody looked closely enough.

I knew signatures mattered. My business existed in the space between signatures. Contracts, riders, certificates, permits, change orders, manifests.

But a signature was evidence that somebody had accepted responsibility.

It was not evidence that the world had become safe.

“I understand,” I said. “Turn the label.”

The supervisor studied my face.

I kept mine neutral.

He could call me difficult. He could call me tired, controlling, expensive, absurd. None of those words weighed as much as the wrong hardware overhead.

He signaled for the lift.

The operator drove it over. The platform rose with a mechanical whine. A gloved hand reached out and turned the tag.

B4.

Correct.

“Thank you,” I said.

The supervisor looked at me. “You ever take anybody’s word for anything?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“When it doesn’t hang over eight hundred heads.”

His expression shifted. Not softened. He did not owe me softness, and I did not need it.

“Fair,” he said.

At 7:39, the tables began dropping into their marked positions.

The room filled fast after that. Linens snapped. Chairs rolled in stacked towers. Florists opened crates. Catering carts came through the service corridor carrying racks of glassware that clicked at every seam in the floor. A vacuum started near registration and followed me for six straight minutes like an accusation.

I checked my watch.

Then my phone.

No calls. Twelve emails. Three text threads. One revised meal count.

The screen went dark.

I woke it again before I had consciously decided to.

Nothing new.

I locked it and pushed it into my back pocket.

A moment later, I checked it again.

Still nothing.