Marla

Marla moved without thinking. The boxes packed themselves. The orders went unchecked, and if a box of pens or some binder clips got missed, she didn’t really give a shit. She didn’t notice the rattle of the fan forcing cool air in from the street, or the insistent beep of the forklift. She didn’t even hear the shriek of the tape sealing the boxes. Ten forty-five. Larry and Kurt should have called by now. She should have sent them earlier. She should have sent them right away. Marla made a special effort to avoid eye contact with Helen. She had no idea how much Helen knew or didn’t know, but Kurt probably told her something. Marla wasn’t sure what she’d do if Helen said the wrong thing.

Marla checked her phone for a missed call, even though she had the ringer all the way up. She could feel the heavy weight of Helen’s gaze. She shoved the phone back into her pocket and built another box. She should have known better than to count on anyone. She called Dean from Fox four times before he finally called her back. Said that thing with the missiles in North Korea was sucking up all the airtime. They wouldn’t be able to devote resources to Carli’s story. Because to them, that’s all it was—a story. He wished her luck, whatever the hell that meant. Bradford answered on the second ring when she called him on the way into work, but he said that he didn’t have anything new to report. The way he said it, though, that tiny hitch in his voice and the long pause after, told her that he was holding something back. She called Larry during her nine-thirty smoke break, but he still hadn’t returned her call.

“Ten grand’s a lotta cash,” Helen said.

Marla said nothing, kept building the box, and all the noises of the warehouse rushed in to fill the silence.

“You must really want that baby back.”

Marla put down the box and tape and settled into stillness. The rattle of the fan competed with the buzzing in her head. She didn’t look up because she knew that the look on Helen’s face would force her to do something that she didn’t have time for, something that would make everything more complicated.

“Don’t get me wrong. I’d love the cash,” Helen said. She let the words hang in the air along with the rumble of a truck at the dock. “But if you ask me, Canada’d be the best thing to ever happen to that baby.”

Marla sighed and started to walk around the table. Blood pounded in her ears, blocking out all other sounds. She eyed Helen’s greasy hair and yellowing bruises, and she knew that she didn’t have time for what was about to happen, she knew she should walk away, but she was past choice and was left with just movement and rage. And she could see that Helen knew this, too, the way she took a step back, the way her hand gripped her tape dispenser with its jagged metal edge. Her beady eyes darted from the table to the shelf to the floor for a more useful weapon, but she mostly held her ground. Marla was almost on her when her cell phone rang.

Marla glared at Helen as she pulled out the phone. She looked down—Wendy’s number. “What?”

“Carli left a little while ago.”

“So what?”

“She said she had to go do something about the baby.”

Helen grabbed a stapler in her other hand, and she stood, feet apart, waiting.

“Where was she going?”

“I dunno. But I thought you might want to know it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Marla slipped the phone back into her pocket. “Best if you ain’t here when I get back,” she growled at Helen, and then she stalked off to the time clock.