Chapter 6: Wax

By Wednesday night, I had slept eleven hours in four days.

The bay was empty except for me and the hot plates.

Hattie was on shift, the pourers had gone home, and the only sound was the low tick of wax cooling in a hundred jars.

I was pouring the last batch of the day, six dozen for the Merrow Home stores.

My arms shook.

Behind me, the office door opened.

"You should stop," Caleb said.

"Six more dozen."

"They'll still be six dozen tomorrow."

"Tomorrow I have the other three hundred."

He came across the concrete in his shirtsleeves, with his tie pulled loose, and stopped at the end of my table.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked.

"Doing what?"

"Helping me. Nobody lends out a bay and a truck and a buyer for nothing."

He looked at the jars lined up in front of me.

"Sayre Holdings has been buying small founders for years," he said. "I'd like it to stop."

"Founders," I said. "More than one."

He picked up a jar and turned it in his hand.

"More than one," he said.

I waited for the rest.

It didn't come.

My arm gave out.

The pot tipped, and a long bright line of hot wax came over the lip toward my wrist.

Caleb reached across the table and caught the handle, and the wax went over his hand instead.

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