He had assumed it was about the open aircraft issue.
Instead, an HR manager named Vivian Shaw was already seated inside.
That was when Caleb knew.
Graham indicated the chair.
"Sit down."
Caleb remained standing for half a second.
Then sat.
Vivian looked uncomfortable.
A folder rested in front of her.
Graham folded his hands.
"As you know, Northstar has been reviewing operational costs."
Caleb's stomach tightened.
"We are restructuring several maintenance functions."
Caleb said nothing.
"Your position is being eliminated effective today."
The words were so clean they almost failed to register.
Caleb stared at him.
"My position."
"Yes."
"Senior line maintenance technician."
"Correct."
"Eliminated."
Graham nodded.
Caleb looked through the glass wall behind him.
Outside, two technicians were working on an aircraft.
His aircraft.
His hangar.
His entire adult routine.
"Who's taking my inspections?"
"The department will redistribute responsibilities."
"To who?"
"That is not something we need to address in this meeting."
Caleb looked at Vivian.
She would not hold his eyes.
He looked back at Graham.
"Is this because of the aircraft?"
Graham's face did not change.
"No."
"The one I grounded."
"No."
"The one that cost the company an alternate charter."
"This is a restructuring decision."
"Then why am I the only person in maintenance being eliminated?"
Vivian shifted slightly.
Graham said, "There are other organizational changes."
"Today?"
"Caleb."
"Are there?"
Graham's voice cooled.
"You are entitled to the information contained in your separation package."
Caleb leaned back.
Nine years.
He thought about Christmas Eve callouts.
Missed dinners.
Working with a fever because three people were already out sick.
Driving through freezing rain for an emergency return-to-service inspection.
Training apprentices.
Crawling inside uncomfortable spaces for hours.
Documenting everything.
Never once falsifying a record.
Never once signing something he had not personally verified.
Nine years reduced to "the information contained in your separation package."
Caleb looked at Vivian.
"Do I still have health insurance through the end of the month?"
She finally looked at him.
"Yes."
That was the first question he asked.
Not severance.
Not accrued vacation.
Health insurance.
Because Nora needed an inhaler refill in January.
Because single parents learned to measure catastrophe through practical details.
"What about my unused vacation?"
"Paid out."
"Retirement contribution?"
"Standard vesting terms apply."
"References?"
Vivian hesitated.
"We can confirm dates of employment and position."
Caleb almost smiled.
Nine years, and he had become dates.
He signed acknowledgment of receiving the documents.
Not agreement.
Receipt.
Then he stood.
At the door, Graham said, "Caleb."
He stopped.
"I recognize this is difficult timing."
Caleb slowly turned.
Three days before Christmas.
An eight-year-old at home.
A safety report two weeks earlier.
A cracked aircraft component they apparently already knew about.
"Difficult timing."
Graham seemed to realize too late how the phrase sounded.
Caleb opened the door.
"Have a good Christmas, Graham."