The Next Morning
Compassion doesn’t always come with cinematic music.
Sometimes it comes with consequences.
My phone lit up when I plugged it in.
Missed calls. Texts.
One voicemail—from Darren.
Not my shift supervisor.
The manager.
“Call me. It’s about last night.”
Inventory was short.
Cameras showed I’d left route.
Came back with groceries.
Sat in my car too long.
I hadn’t stolen product for myself.
But I had given away a pizza.
And time.
I called him.
“You can’t just give things away,” he said flatly. “It’s not your money.”
“She didn’t have food,” I replied.
“That’s not our responsibility.”
There it was.
The sentence that splits rooms in half.
Not. Our. Responsibility.
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