Chapter 3 - The Hours Missing From Friday's Envelope

I went to Novak's before dawn because Rosie needed breakfast and because Mr. Novak had not told me I was fired. I had learned to distinguish between threats and decisions. A threat could make you miserable for days. A decision could take away the money you needed on Friday.

The bakery smelled of yeast and warm sugar when I entered. Usually that smell made the morning easier. This time, Mr. Novak was waiting by the register, holding a clipboard against his chest as though he expected an inspection.

“Did you give someone my address?” he asked.

“I told someone where I work. I didn't ask anyone to call you.”

“People with expensive coats don't ask about leases for fun.”

He looked past me toward the street. Then he told me to get started on the trays. It was an ordinary instruction, delivered in a voice that made clear the conversation was not finished.

Leila, who packed the orders and helped with the books whenever Mr. Novak was overwhelmed, joined me in the back room. She had worked there longer than I had. She was practical and rarely wasted words.

“He's been like that all week,” she whispered. “Before your mysterious visitor.”

“What happened?”

“He got another notice from the management company. Wants money we don't have.”

I kept sliding rolls onto a tray. “Rent?”

“Something called an after-hours security assessment. I don't know. He keeps the letter in his desk.”

We worked through the morning rush. At eight, I took a moment to drink water, and Leila saw the pay envelope protruding from my bag. She asked why I had kept it. I told her I'd been thinking about how many hours I worked compared with what I brought home.

She asked to see it. At first I hesitated. Then I handed her the statement.

“Fourteen paid hours?” she said.

I blinked. The figure was printed near the bottom in a column I'd never examined carefully. I had been so focused on the amount that I hadn't understood what the number represented.

“That's not possible,” I said. “I worked more than that last week.”

“I know. I closed with you twice.”

Mr. Novak had always explained the shortage as a temporary reduction in paid hours, despite having us arrive early and stay late. I hadn't called it theft because I'd been afraid of what would happen if I did. Seeing the number in print made it harder to continue pretending there was no question to ask.

Leila went to the counter and brought back the schedule pinned beside the order board. It showed my name against five shifts. Two began before the shop opened. She placed the schedule beside the pay statement.

“You need photographs,” she said.

I used my phone to record my own schedule and the envelope. I did not open the office or touch anything that wasn't available to employees. I was frightened enough already without giving Mr. Novak a reason to accuse me of stealing records.

At closing, I asked him about the hours. He put down a mixing bowl and rubbed his face.

“That's the arrangement,” he said.

“What arrangement?”

“You wanted the job. I told you things were tight.”

“You told me the pay was temporary. You didn't tell me you would record half my time.”

His expression changed. For the first time since I'd known him, he looked less angry than exhausted.

“Do you know what it costs to keep this place open?” he asked. “The rent went up. The extra charges never stop. If I close, none of you gets anything.”

“I can't heat my apartment with hours you don't pay me for.”

He looked away. “Come back tomorrow. We'll talk.”

I wanted to believe him. I also knew he'd been telling me to wait for months. After work, I picked up Rosie from the neighbor who watched her during my shifts. When I explained that I'd had a difficult day, Rosie offered me the bus-ticket drawing. “You can keep it until you feel better,” she said.

I held it carefully. I'd spent four years refusing to let my worries become hers. Yet she noticed more than I wanted her to.

That evening, Tomas called. I had given him permission at the store to contact me about the property inquiry, not about my family. His manner was formal, and he began by asking whether it was a good time.

“Mr. Moretti asked me to tell you something,” he said. “The bakery is in a building managed by Moretti Property Group.”

I sat down. “Does that mean he owns it?”

“The property is held by one of the group's companies. He didn't know the bakery was one of the tenants until today.”

“Then he can tell his company to stop raising the rent.”

“Not without looking at the lease and the records. He has asked for a review.”

I thought about Mr. Novak's fear and the hours missing from my statement. “Is that why my boss is so nervous?”

“We don't know yet. Mr. Moretti wants you to know the inquiry concerns the company, not your employment. He hasn't given your name to your employer.”

I almost told Tomas about the pay statement. Instead, I asked whether he knew a lawyer who could advise an employee without becoming dependent on Dominic Moretti's goodwill.

There was a pause. “I can send you the number for a workers' legal clinic. It doesn't belong to our company. You can contact them yourself.”

I accepted the number. I wasn't ready to accept anything else.

The next afternoon I spoke to an attorney named Marisol Vega. She asked questions Mr. Novak had never asked: how many days I worked, whether I kept schedules, what I actually received, and whether anyone had threatened to reduce my shifts if I objected. She explained that the difference between recorded hours and hours worked was not simply a matter of generosity. It could be a wage claim supported by records.

“Don't confront him again until we know what you have,” she advised. “And don't sign anything you haven't read.”

I followed her advice. Leila agreed to save copies of her own schedules, and another employee began checking old pay envelopes. No one wanted to lose the job. All of us wanted to know what had happened to the hours we had worked.

Friday came with another envelope. It contained the same weekly figure, although I'd stayed late three times. Tucked beneath the statement was a handwritten note from Mr. Novak asking me to meet him after closing.

When I entered the office, he was holding a letter with a red stamp at the top. He didn't show me the whole page. He only pointed to the date printed near the bottom.

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“January second,” he said. “They're saying we're in default. If they lock this place, none of your missing wages will matter.”

I looked at the notice and realized I had been asking only half the question. Someone had been taking time from my paychecks. Someone else, it seemed, was demanding money from the bakery. And the people at the bottom of both arrangements were the ones who stood to lose everything.