I was frustrated, but I’m not the kind of man to start a witch hunt. Instead, I found a solution of my own. I bought a small refrigerator, just big enough for my lunch and a couple of drinks. I set it up discreetly in a corner near my workstation, plugged it into an outlet that wasn’t being used, and carried on. That way, I wouldn’t have to worry about anyone stealing Marie’s meals.

It worked perfectly for a while. I felt relieved knowing my food was safe. No more missing lunches, no more going hungry during a twelve-hour shift. I thought I’d found a harmless compromise.

Then came the day I was called into the manager’s office.

When I got the message to report upstairs, I actually felt a spark of excitement. Call it foolish optimism, but after all those years without a raise, I thought maybe—just maybe—they’d finally decided to acknowledge my dedication. I pictured a small bonus, maybe a word of thanks. I straightened my shirt, wiped the grease from my hands, and walked into that office with my head held high.

The manager didn’t even ask me to sit down. He just stood there, arms crossed, expression stiff.