Taking Stock by Scott Bartlett Page B

cold.
    I’ll have to, eventually. Everyone gets tired.
    I sit down, just for a moment.
    I try to stand.
    I lay my head on a case of juice cans. Something crunches under my ear, and I realize it’s frost.
    I fall asleep. And I know nothing.
     
    *
     
    “Sheldon,” someone says. “Wake up!”
    “Mm.” I open my eyes, and see Cassandra.
    “Get up. Come on!”
    She’s leaning over me. Her eyes are wide.
    “Hi,” I say.
    “Sheldon, you need to move. Your lips are blue.”
    It’s still dark in the freezer, but there’s light coming from the warehouse. Cassandra crosses her arms and hugs herself.
    With Cassandra’s help, I stand and walk out of the freezer. There’s a cart nearby, and I sit.
    “Is this what was blocking the door?” My voice still isn’t very loud.
    She nods. “Someone wedged it under the handle.” She glances toward the punch clock.
    I look, too. A few cashiers are gathered, peering over at us. An elderly lady, Marilyn, drops her punch card, and it flutters from her hand. She walks over and touches my forearm.
    “Like ice,” she says. “Are you all right?”
    “I guess I am.”
    Cassandra touches me, too. “Are you sure? Maybe you should go to the hospital.”
    I pull away, and stand up. My limbs are stiff. I shuffle past the desk, to where my coat hangs from a nail.
    I pull it on, walk to the clock, and try to grasp my punch card. I can’t.
    “Sheldon?” Cassandra says.
    Marilyn takes my card and drops it in for me. “Cassandra noticed the cart blocking the door. Thank heaven she did.”
    “Thanks,” I say.
    “You don’t drive, do you?” Marilyn says. “My husband will drive you home tonight.”
    “My bike is locked up out front.”
    “You can come back and get it tomorrow. You’re in no shape to bike home. You need to get home and wrap up in some blankets. Who will answer my pages if you lose your fingers?”
    I smile. Marilyn reminds me of my grandmother.
    “You’ll tell Frank about this, won’t you?” she says.
    “I will.”
    I glance at Cassandra, who’s still standing near the open freezer door. She returns my gaze, blank-faced.
    “Bye,” I say.
     
    *
     
    Frank’s office door is slightly ajar, and I push it open the rest of the way. He’s sitting at his computer. “Can I speak with you?” I say.
    He looks up at me—looks me in the eye, for the first time—and then his gaze flits back to his computer screen. There’s a flurry of clicking. “Don’t they train you to knock in Grocery?”
    “Um, I think that would have been my mother’s job.”
    “She didn’t do it very well.” More clicking. If I were to guess, I’d say Frank is using his work computer inappropriately.
    “I need to speak with you,” I say.
    “That’s convenient. Because Ralph and I want to have a talk with you.” He picks up the phone and punches a button, making the store intercom beep. “Ralph Thompson to the store office please. Ralph Thompson to the store office.” He hangs up.
    “Did you watch the camera footage from last night?” I say.
    “I didn’t need to. It’s pretty clear what happened.”
    “So you know who did it?”
    He looks out the narrow window overlooking the cash registers. “Nobody did it. When we got here this morning, it wasn’t done.”
    I decide to wait until Ralph gets here.
    “Sheldon,” Ralph says when he arrives. “You’re not scheduled to work today. Why are you here?”
    “I came to speak with Frank.”
    Frank emits a dry hybrid of a cough and a laugh. His eyes swivel to the floor. “I hope you brought your letter of resignation, after last night.”
    “Easy, Frank,” Ralph says.
    “Wait,” I say. “What do you think happened last night?”
    Frank laughs again. “Not very much.”
    “The frozen order was only half done this morning,” Ralph says. “It wasn’t much work—between you and Brent, there should have been time to spare.”
    “Slackers aren’t tolerated,” Frank says, which is so funny I could puke.
    I recount