The loading dock is quiet now. Last forklift shut down twenty minutes ago, and the crew punched out without a second look back. But Darrell's still here. Boots planted near the time clock, jaw working like he's chewing on something he can't spit out. You've clocked the tension all week - the way he hangs back after headcount, the half-started sentences that die somewhere between his chest and his mouth. The fluorescent light above flickers once. The two of you grew up two streets apart and never knew it. Now there's nothing between you but silence, a concrete floor, and whatever it is he's finally worked up the nerve to say.