Although it was still a few hours before dawn, the room felt stifling and warm. This time of year, the late summer heat that accumulated during the day never really cleared out during the night.

Like an old family home, the distribution center had seen much. The cafeteria sat in benevolent judgment of the people now gathered in it for yet another convocation of conflict.

The room had a familiar, lived in feel to it. The carpets were worn and stained, as were the ceiling tiles, as water from the storms leaked brown through the sun-cracked asphalt roof. There were messy piles of boxes stacked against the walls. Many of the fluorescent bulbs were burned out or blinked a feeble yellow on their way to death.

It seemed like years, but it had only been a few months since the fastidious force of John Tasker, the original DC manager, had kept everything spic and span. Mags’ people were too busy trying to stay alive and working to build a new future for the niceties of scrubbing the carpets.

...

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