It was a steel door, which was painted a garish shade of currant-red. He studied it without anything else to do. Chill air cooled the skin, and he shivered as a blast of wintry air shoved at him. The office was warm, pleasant, but certainly better than the arctic production floor. About the room hung the cheap, yet pungent potpourri. He coughed, underlying chemicals soured in the throat. Beyond the cloister of offices, machinery howled in begrudged life, for they were old, out of date. The newest thing in this place, mused Kayden.

Through the steel door’s blinds, he saw her, and reached for the handle. Sheila held up a finger with a smirk that almost passed as a smile. She turned back to another, and tightness gripped his chest. Rumors abounded in a factory. Some said that foreign industry was doing better than them. Others said the Van Lear family wanted to push out the company, but rumors were a way for the workers to have some control, some awareness. The county’s aristocracy, Old Money, hated the incursion of the plant, which was pushed by New Money. Either way, he cursed, everyone’s hours had been cut down from overtime to forty, forty to thirty-two.

“I’m safe,” muttered Kayden, but Brian Weber smiled at him. A gleam was in the other man’s gaze, which was intense, almost sickly.

The smile beneath that gaze held all the charm of a little boy that tore the wings off flies. Tightness turned to an iron grip around Kayden’s heart, and his stomach felt full of soured coffee. Anger had made counting the cost impossible, though he had been unaware of connections. The good-ole-boys’ club always wins in Owl Sticks, where merit was determined by family or familiarity. Kayden grinded his teeth, jaw popped. For all their cruel words and mean spirited acts, they really enjoyed him doing their jobs.

“No,” Kayden shook his head, “who is actually going to do the work, so their buddies can stand around?”

Sheila nodded her head as Brian, and beckoned Kayden with one, long fingernail. It was painted to match the door. The expense was obvious. He opened the door to see the Plant Manager William Peck. Kayden smiled though felt light headed.

“Mister Stone,” Sheila smirked, “how are you doing this morning? How is your wife?”

“Still divorced,” he forced a smile, for Jillian had worked at the company. Kayden had no interest in the whole plant talking about his ex-wife. “She still can’t work, you know, after the medical problems.” Brian’s smile grew, but William sighed, crossed his arms and legs.

“That was so unfortunate,” he smirk turned to a smile. “I just hate it. Maybe, you can get her into rehab.”

He glanced at Brian, who laughed, but Sheila waggled a finger at him. Like a beloved but naughty child, he stowed his open glee. “Well, with our hours being cut,” he dug fingers into palms, “it is hard—”

Sheila waved off his works, “Anyways, why we brought you in here today to discuss certain matters.” She looked up, nodded, “Oh yes, first, I need your security card.”

“Okay,” he withdrew his wallet, and set the card on her desk. The beat of his heart grew louder, and lightness at the back of his head bloomed to grayness at the edges of his vision. Kayden’s beech wood eyes, light brown charred at the edges, locked onto Sheila.

The Human Resources Manager took a pencil from cup. She pushed the card with its eraser, lip curled. “Now,” she brushed down the wrinkles of her blouse, “there have been some unfortunate events, and things have been limping along.”

“Yes,” he nodded, “we lost some of the contracts.” Kayden tried to keep his eyes from Brian, but saw his supervisor’s face redden. “Those quality issues,” he said, for all knew the reason for the loss of their customers.

“Sure,” she said, but looked down at a list of names. “You know that we’ve been working reduced hours, which has made things harder.”

“Yes,” he said but she looked away. A dark part wanted Sheila to at least look at him. An ice pick of fire stabbed at the back of Kayden’s eyes.

“Anyways,” she snapped, looked at the computer. Sheila looked at her computer, where the notes were pulled up. “Yes, unfortunately, we have to lay off some people, so the others can have forty hours.”

Part of him knew this was possible, yet, days of being moved played at the back of the mind. It was no secret Brian and his buddies hated him, but Kayden always came to help. “I don’t understand,” he said through the gray fog, which was turning red. “I’ve been here a long time,” he scowled, “and there are a lot of people who’re newer than me.”

“Well,” she blinked, smirk blessedly gone.

Brian crossed his arms, “We need the best, so we can make it through these hard times. I figured, with all those books you read, you would understand. I guess you’re not that smart.”

Kayden pressed his mouth shut, but his eyes locked onto the supervisor. The good-ole-boys’ club, he thought bitter. “Smart, there is a difference between smart and being a sycophantic lecher.” Brian looked to William and Sheila. “There is a distinction between intelligence, and being a boot licking pervert. The smart thing, if I was in a position of power, would be to separate my person and professional lives. I’ve heard women here are complaining. Some have told me they’ve felt pressure to do THINGS.”

“There is no evidence,” Sheila held up a hand. “Besides, I can’t do ANYTHING, if there is no PROOF.”

The ice picks turned to flaming daggers, and he struck his leg with a fist. “Everyone is afraid to say anything,” Kayden growled, grayness gone but now blackness. “You say anything, and you get punished!”

“We have a no retaliation policy,” countered Sheila.

“Sure,” he laughed, grin vicious.

Brian struck the desk with a fist, “I wondered why you were talking to them!”