Three days before Christmas, Caleb Mercer walked out of the only workplace he had known for nearly nine years, carrying everything the company believed belonged to him inside a cardboard box.
A framed photograph of his eight-year-old daughter leaned against one side. His chipped blue coffee mug sat beneath a pair of stained leather work gloves.
A handful of pens, a flashlight, two old maintenance notebooks, and a miniature red airplane ornament made from craft sticks and glitter filled the remaining space. The ornament had been made by Nora at school the Christmas before, and on the back, in uneven purple marker, she had written, FOR DADDY SO YOU ALWAYS COME HOME SAFE.
Caleb kept his eyes on the concrete floor as he crossed Hangar Three.
He did not want anyone to see him cry.
He had spent almost nine years inside that building. He knew where the concrete dipped near Bay Four, where rainwater found its way beneath the east loading door during spring storms, which vending machine sometimes gave two bags of chips for the price of one, and which fluorescent fixture above the tool crib buzzed louder when the outside temperature dropped below freezing.
He knew the building before sunrise, when the hangar was dark except for emergency lights and the distant blue glow of avionics panels. He knew it at two in the morning when a stranded aircraft came in with a problem nobody had expected and everyone wanted solved before breakfast. He knew the sounds of it almost as well as he knew the sounds of his own apartment.
Now every step toward the exit sounded unfamiliar.
People had stopped working.
Not officially.
Nobody had announced anything.
But impact wrenches had gone silent. Toolboxes remained open. A tug sat motionless beside a midsize business jet. Somewhere near the back of the hangar, an air compressor cycled on with a low mechanical hum and seemed absurdly loud in the quiet.
Caleb felt people watching him.
He did not look up.
If he looked up, he was afraid he would lose whatever remained of the fragile control holding him together.
He had already cried once that morning.
Not in Graham Voss's office.
Not while reading the termination letter.
Not when security asked for his company badge.
He had cried in the restroom afterward, silently, with both hands gripping the edge of a sink while cold water ran down the drain.
He had given himself ninety seconds.
Then he had washed his face.
Collected his things.
And started walking.
Three days before Christmas.
That detail kept returning.
Not because losing a job would have been easier in March or July, but because an eight-year-old girl was waiting at home for Christmas morning with the absolute certainty that her father could solve anything.
Nora believed Caleb could repair broken toys.
Fix leaking faucets.
Untangle Christmas lights.
Make pancakes shaped like snowmen.
Remove monsters from closets.
And somehow, when money was tight, make it look as though it wasn't.
Caleb had spent four years trying to protect that belief.
Four years since Nora's mother, Elise, had died and left him learning how to be two parents while barely understanding how to continue being one person.
He had promised Elise something in the hospital during one of their last clear conversations.
Nora will never feel alone.
Elise had been too weak for a long speech. She had squeezed his hand and whispered, "You too."
Caleb had been worse at keeping that part of the promise.
The exit doors were twenty feet away when he heard a metal click behind him.
He stopped.
So did everyone else.
Ronan Pierce had removed his company identification badge from the lanyard around his neck.
Ronan was fifty-six, gray-haired, thick through the shoulders, and had worked on aircraft longer than Caleb had been old enough to legally drive. He was not emotional by nature. He believed most problems could be improved by tightening something, replacing something, or drinking stronger coffee.
He placed his badge on the reception counter beside the hangar exit.
Caleb turned.
"Ronan."
Ronan looked at him.
"No."
Caleb frowned.
"No what?"
"No, you're not walking out of here like you did something wrong."
Caleb shifted the cardboard box in his arms.
"Don't do anything stupid."
Ronan gave a humorless smile.
"That's rich coming from the guy who just got fired for preventing stupid."
A few people nearby looked down.
Others looked at Graham Voss's office on the mezzanine above the hangar.
Caleb lowered his voice.
"You have a mortgage."
"So do you."
"You've got fourteen years here."
"Eighteen."
"Exactly."
Ronan picked up his jacket from a chair.
"I'm going home."
Caleb stared at him.
"Ronan."
"Clocked out."
"Don't."
Ronan stepped beside him.
"Too late."
A second badge hit the counter.
Then a third.
Caleb looked over.
Maya Chen, one of Northstar's senior avionics technicians, was pulling on her winter coat.
She was thirty-three, precise to the point of intimidating, and almost never participated in workplace drama.
"You're leaving too?" Caleb asked.
Maya zipped her coat.
"I finished securing the aircraft in my bay."
"Maya, please don't risk your job over me."
"I'm not."
She looked toward the mezzanine.
"I'm risking it over them."
Another badge landed.
Then another.
Luis Romero from ground operations.
Tessa Ward from dispatch.
Janelle Price from parts coordination.
Owen Burke, a twenty-four-year-old apprentice technician Caleb had trained for almost two years.
Owen looked terrified.
He put his badge down anyway.
Within ninety seconds, the counter was covered.
Caleb's chest tightened.
"What are you doing?"
Nobody answered immediately.