Chapter 7 - THE FIFTH FLOOR OFFICE
The logistics department of the St. Jude’s Children’s Trust was not a dark room in the basement with mop buckets and stacks of paper invoices.
It occupied the entire eastern wing of the fourth floor.
When Jenna walked through the glass doors at 10:05 AM, she found a bright, open hall lined with white oak desks, high-resolution monitors displaying shipping maps of food and medical supplies across five states, and twelve staff members who looked up and nodded politely as Eleanor Vance walked them through the room.
"This is Miss Miller," Eleanor announced to the floor, her voice sharp and clear. "She will be managing the regional inventory allocation for the family emergency housing network. Her desk is in Suite 408."
Suite 408 was a quiet office with a wide window facing the courtyard gardens below. On the desk sat a sleek black computer, two landline phones, a brass lamp, and a small framed photograph that hadn't been there when Eleanor checked the room at 9:00 AM.
It was a small, high-quality print of the drawing Lucas had made—the table, the single plate, the three red hearts, and the words: THEY ONLY HAD ONE PLATE. DAD, FIX IT.
Jenna stood by the desk, touching the edge of the wooden frame with one finger.
"Mr. Vale had it framed this morning," Eleanor said, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed over her grey suit jacket. "He thought it belonged here."
Jenna looked at Eleanor. "Do you think I belong here, Miss Vance?"
Eleanor didn't answer immediately. She walked into the room, pulled out the chair across from the desk, and sat down with crisp precision.
"When Mr. Vale told me he met a woman in a diner on 4th Street who was splitting one chicken dinner between two five-year-olds, I thought he was being sentimental," Eleanor said frankly. "Mr. Vale is a brilliant man, Miss Miller, but his heart sometimes gets ahead of his legal counsel."
"I understand," Jenna said.
"Then I pulled your employment records from your previous sanitation jobs," Eleanor continued, pulling a blue folder from under her arm. "You worked sixty hours a week at the hospital for fourteen months without a single absent day. You organized their supply closet system on your own time because the shift manager was incompetent. You have an associate's degree in business accounting from Ohio State that you finished while working night shifts."
Eleanor set the folder on the desk.
"You don't belong here because Mr. Vale felt sorry for you, Miss Miller," Eleanor said, her eyes meeting Jenna’s with cold, professional respect. "You belong here because you are overqualified for the job we were paying the last guy eighty thousand to mess up."
Jenna blinked. "Oh."
"Your training starts now," Eleanor said, tapping the computer screen. "There are four supply trucks stuck in a snowstorm near Albany carrying three hundred blankets for the shelter on 8th Street. Find them alternative routes before noon."
Eleanor stood up, adjusted her jacket, and walked out of the room, leaving the door open behind her.
May you like
Jenna sat down in the leather chair. The cushion sank softly beneath her weight. She pulled the black keyboard toward her, looked at the glowing map of New York State on the screen, and smiled.
Her hands, rough from years of bleach and dish soap, hovered over the keys for one second—and then began to type.
