I have been lucky. Two whole days without seeing Mr Hydell at work. If he is not here tonight, I will have managed to avoid the awkward conversation long enough that I am beginning to hope he might forget I dodged his request for a private chat by next week.

  What worries me more is that Georgina has stopped coming to work. She needs the money, so I can only hope she found a different job. I cannot imagine having to take care of a child alone. We at least had some savings that got us through plenty of years before I had to take a job to provide for Ernie.

  The recycling plant stretches out under a pale sky, open and raw, with no fences or gates to mark its edges. The ground is dry and uneven, packed hard with dirt and scarred by the thick tracks of trucks that have come and gone all day. Towers of waste stand in jagged lines, some formed of faded cartons, others sloping under the weight of broken plastics and bent metal. Crushed cans glint beneath the piles like silver scraps buried in dust. A truck in the distance tilts its load, sending a small avalanche of debris sliding down an unstable mound. Workers move steadily between the stacks, heads down, sorting by hand with tired, practiced motions.

  At the entrance to the grounds, where the churned path begins, stands Mr Hydell.

  He stands firm, feet apart, back straight, hands tucked behind him like he is waiting for a drill to begin. The floodlight overhead casts a pale wash across his face, picking out the sharp lines and shadows that make him look more alert than usual. He wears dark pressed trousers, polished boots, and a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up neatly to his forearms. Looks like my luck from the past two nights might be running out. The way he is standing there, right at the usual time I arrive, I can only assume he is still determined to talk.

  “Good afternoon, Victoria,” he greets me, his voice calm but flat.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” I reply, guarded.

  He offers a soft, unexpectedly natural smile. “I want to discuss your work performance with you. Follow me to my office.”

  He turns to lead the way to his office without waiting for a response. No matter how much I thought I had prepared for an awkward conversation, I still find myself caught off guard. The back of his shirt sways with each step as he walks ahead.

  “No,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. I scramble to cover the awkwardness. “I would prefer that we just talk here, sir.”

  I quickly pull out my phone and mark my presence for the shift. Whatever this is, I am not letting it affect today’s pay.

  Mr Hydell looks a little taken aback as I focus on my phone before meeting his gaze again.

  “Ok, Victoria, we can talk here.” He folds his arms. “Why did you rush off when I asked to speak to you on Tuesday night?”

  Again, I respond too quickly. “Is that related to my work performance?”

  He counters, “It is if you aren’t able to do as you’re asked.”

  I hold my ground as I provide my rehearsed explanation. “I had finished my shift and needed to get home. If it was urgent, a message would have reached me. Otherwise, we are speaking now.”

  He lets it go with a short, “Fair enough.” Then he pauses before continuing. “Aside from that night, I’ve been pleased with how little rework your sorting piles have needed. It’s saving the company money.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, waiting tensely for the ‘but’ or whatever it is he actually wants.

  He continues. “You may not know I own a few other businesses. One of these businesses delivers high-end hospitality services for corporate clients. On Sunday, Sydney FC play the Coastal Mariners at Sydney Football Stadium. I would love for you to help me set up one of the suites, serve canapés, drinks, and ensure the guests are kept comfortable and happy during the event before helping clean up. It’s shorter than a full day’s work, and with both the reduced hours and the upmarket clientele, the pay is close to triple what you earn here. If you enjoy the work, there will be more opportunities in the future too.”

  I listen carefully to every word, wishing it wasn’t too good to be true. I am just about ready to decline his offer when he adds, “You’ll also get two tickets right in line with centre field, for your friends or family, if you know any football fans. I shouldn’t have to tell you how hard those are to come by in a season that sells out before it even starts.”

  That makes me hesitate. I can imagine the height of Ernie’s happiness, getting the chance to watch the match live from the stadium this weekend, something that would feel completely out of reach for him. It might even be enough of a consolation to stop him from playing. Who would he go with? I cut my thoughts short. “Sorry sir, I have assessments to finish this weekend.”

  “Sorry sir, I have assessments to finish this weekend.” Well, it’s not a lie.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  His smile fades into a scowl, most likely unused to not getting his own way. I hastily add, “It sounds like a great opportunity, I’m just not able to.”

  He resets his expression to neutral as he says, “I’m disappointed, Victoria. I think that you will be great with the customers.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I just can’t…”

  He cuts me off mid-apology. “Please, call me Kage. I like being called sir, but it feels a bit formal for this conversation. We will be working together as equals in my other business.”

  He is making it difficult for me to hold my ground.

  “I still can’t, Kage. Sorry.”

  He doesn’t move for a moment, still facing me, as if deciding whether to push harder. Then he relents. “Let me know if you change your mind. It’s fun work, and the right kind of attitude makes all the difference. Plus, the pay’s good and we’re low on staff, so we could use the help!”

  I push out a “Thank you, sir!” and rush off to my assigned pile for the shift at the rear of the plant.

  The walk there is long and winding past hills of plastic bottles, pale and warped in the afternoon sun, before the light slips behind the larger piles ahead. Trucks beep as they charge toward me on the makeshift path, forcing me to step into the sticky, mushy ground beside more unsorted recycling. I oddly wonder who’s causing that detergent smell. Everything around me feels like a lifeless, waiting mess.

  I search for Georgina as I make my way through the plant, even though I already know she won’t be here. Unfortunately, she’s nowhere to be seen. I hope that she is doing ok!

  I know I won’t be able to focus if I don’t at least try to reach out. I search my phone for her number, but it doesn’t look like I ever asked for it.

  I open the social media search engine and type in her name, Georgina Doherty, within a 15-kilometre radius. Only 23 results. That’s better. It doesn’t take me long to scroll through the profile pictures and find her image. It’s a beach selfie from many years ago, with a sunset in the background setting over blue and white waves along the ocean horizon. Her hair was free flowing back then, blown to the right in a coordinated mess that looks almost artistic. Her face is layered with youthful filters, and if it weren’t for her windswept hair, I might have thought the background was filtered too.

  I need to hurry with my message before Mr Hydell catches me on my phone, especially after just complimenting my work ethic!

  Hi Georgina, it’s Victoria from work. I haven’t seen you since Tuesday and just wanted to check that you’re doing okay?

  I send the message, feeling slightly more at ease now that I’ve reached out to Georgina. I would love to talk to her about my situation with Mr Hydell, but I know there could be something more urgent going on with her. It’s best to make sure she’s safe first.

  My shift passes with its usual mindless repetition, except that I keep taking off my gloves and checking my phone several times to see if she has replied. Each time I look, I become a little more worried that something might have happened to her. On my way out, I ask a few of the other workers if they’ve heard from her, and mostly receive glares, like I’m trying to drag them into someone else’s problems, or absent-minded shrugs as they keep working. Everyone here just seems to want to do their job and leave. I wouldn’t ask any of them to help out in a people-focused catering job if I were Mr Hydell either.

  On my way out, I catch his eye again. He raises an eyebrow, a silent reminder that I should still be considering his offer for Sunday. I give him a nod of acknowledgement and leave the grounds into the dark of the evening, under the final trace of a fading moon.

  Tonight, I feel the sensation of being followed from the moment I leave work, so I take a detour on the way home. By passing through the corporate area of the city, there should be more people around sooner and I will feel a bit safer.

  At the start of my change in direction, I hear my name called out.

  “Victoria.”

  I pick up my pace.

  The voice comes again, crying out louder this time. “Victoria, wait!”

  I stop where I am. I know that voice.

  “Georgina?”

  She jogs up beside me, slightly out of breath. In the low glow of a nearby apartment window, I make out pink and black fabric, the same combination of hoodie and leggings I’ve seen her wear before. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust in the dim light, but once they do, I notice her hair is loose and messy, not tied like usual. Her face is drawn with exhaustion, but it is unmistakably Georgina.

  “Yes, it’s me,” she says. “I got your message and wanted to speak to you in person after your shift, but I didn’t make it in time.”

  That explains why she didn’t message me back.

  “Is everything ok?” I ask.

  She opens up to me. “It’s all simply too much. I just can’t work there anymore.”

  I can relate to that.

  She continues sharing. “I was ready to make my way there on Wednesday and couldn’t even find the energy to leave the house. I thought if I took the day off, it might help me feel more at peace for Thursday, but each day just gets harder.”

  I’m caught in silence, not really knowing what to say to be of help.

  She goes on. “I need to find a new job. My time there has run its course. Faith and I will live off the support from my parents for a few weeks while I figure things out. Thank you for being here to talk to. You’re a good friend.”

  I think about how I’ve done more listening than talking since we met, but I’m grateful for her appreciation.

  “You are welcome any time.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, I decide it is time to share something of my own.

  I say, “Thank you too for your warning! Mr Hydell asked me tonight to work at the football on Sunday. Sharing your story from last weekend has really helped me to get out of a difficult situation there.”

  Georgina almost shouts, “Oh my god, don’t do it!!!”

  I appreciate her valid reaction!

  “I have already told him no and he is insisting quite strongly… I would love the extra money, but I can’t put myself through the experience you had for any price.”

  Georgina’s tone is still very emotional. “Please don’t! You have no idea how far things could go if he targets you next!”

  This conversation is worrying me more than it helps.

  I keep my reply short, “I won’t,” and we continue walking to the city, her silence filled with the weight of what she is not saying.

  The feeling of being followed does not dissipate, but I illogically feel much safer walking with a friend through the night than being on my own. I lose her company to a discount wholesaler as she ducks in to grab what she needs to get by the next few weeks without an income. The mass of people on the street grows the closer I get to the city, and without thinking, I find myself heading toward United World’s head office. It is the same route I used to take to visit Mum and Dad at work when I was a child. Nearing the headquarters, a familiar wolf whistle text tone draws my attention.

  What is Roselyn doing here?!