The factory smelled like rust and old coffee. Tyler Kowalski stood at the press machine and watched the metal come out bent, not straight. He bent it back with his hands and put it on the pile. The pile was getting bigger. The orders were getting smaller. Nobody said anything about it because nobody wanted to talk about it.

Raymond Kowalski stood in his office across the hall and looked at the spreadsheet on his computer screen. The spreadsheet said they had enough money for two more weeks of payroll. Maybe three if he didn't pay the electric bill. He closed the spreadsheet and opened a different file. The file had names on it. Names of people who worked at the factory. Names of people who didn't work at the factory but who were on the payroll anyway.

He had added four names last week. Four people who didn't exist. Four paychecks that would go into his bank account and keep the factory running for one more week. Maybe two. He told himself he was doing it for the workers. He told himself that if the factory closed, all sixty of them would be out of a job. So four fake names was better than sixty real ones out of work. It was simple math.

Tyler came into the office at 2 PM to pick up his check. He was nineteen and he had dropped out of high school in November because his mom got sick and they needed the money. He didn't say much. He never said much. He took the check and nodded and left.

"Tyler," Raymond said.

Tyler stopped at the door.

"How's the press machine?"

"Fine."

"It's making that noise again?"

"Yeah."

"Tell Mike I said to check the alignment."

"Okay."

Tyler left. Raymond looked at the spreadsheet again. He opened a new document and typed four names. Michael Torres. Sarah Chen. David O'Brien. Lisa Nguyen. He made up addresses. He made up social security numbers. He printed the new payroll and replaced the old one in the file folder.

He didn't think about it after that. He thought about it for about ten minutes, then he stopped. That was the thing about doing things like this—you stopped thinking about them. You just kept doing them because if you stopped, you'd have to think about why you were doing them, and you didn't want to think about that.

The state auditor came on Thursday. He was a man in a grey suit who didn't smile and didn't make small talk. He sat at Raymond's desk and opened the file folder and looked at the payroll.

"Mr. Kowalski," he said. "I'm here to verify the new hires for the Manufacturing Revival Grant."

"I understand," Raymond said. "Everything is in order."

The auditor looked at the payroll. He looked at Raymond. He looked back at the payroll.

"These four employees," he said. "When did they start?"

"Last month," Raymond said. "October first."

"Have they been working every day since then?"

"Yes."

"Can I speak with them?"

Raymond felt something move in his chest. It wasn't panic. Panic would have been easier. This was something worse: the quiet realization that he was about to get caught and there was nothing he could do about it.

"They're on the floor right now," he said.

The auditor stood up and walked to the door. Tyler was standing in the hallway, leaning against the wall, looking at his phone. The auditor looked at him.

"You're one of the new hires?"

"Yeah."

"Your name?"

"Tyler Kowalski."

"Are you Polish?"

"My dad is."

The auditor looked at Raymond. Raymond looked at the floor. The auditor looked back at Tyler.

"Mr. Kowalski," he said. "Is your father Raymond Kowalski?"

"Yeah."

"And you work on the press machine."

"Yeah."

The auditor stood there for a moment. He was thinking. Tyler could see it on his face—the calculation, the assessment, the decision. Then he walked back to the desk and opened the file folder again.

He looked at the payroll. He looked at the four names. He looked at the attendance records. He looked at the time cards.

"Mr. Kowalski," he said. "These time cards."

"Yeah?"

"They're blank."

Raymond felt the room get smaller. "I—what?"

"The time cards. They're blank. No signatures. No dates. No hours. Nothing."

Raymond looked at the file folder. The time cards were blank. He knew they were blank. He had blanked them out. He had taken the real time cards—the ones with the signatures and the dates and the hours—and he had replaced them with blank ones. He had done it the night before, when he couldn't sleep, when he realized that the auditor would check everything and he couldn't let that happen.

Tyler was standing in the doorway. He had seen his father take the time cards. He had seen him put the blank ones in the folder. He had said nothing. He had just watched.

"I—" Raymond started.

The auditor closed the folder. He stood up. He picked up his briefcase.

"Mr. Kowalski," he said. "I'm going to need to see your actual payroll records. The real ones."

"I don't—"

"The ones you submitted with your grant application. The ones with the hours and the signatures and the dates."

Raymond looked at Tyler. Tyler looked at Raymond. And in that moment, Raymond understood something: his son had known. He had known all along. He had known and he had said nothing and now he was watching his father get caught and he wasn't going to help him.

"I don't have them," Raymond said.

The auditor nodded. He didn't look surprised. He had expected this. He had expected it from everyone.

"Mr. Kowalski," he said. "I'm going to need you to come down to the state office on Monday. We're going to sort this out."

"Sort what out?"

"The discrepancy."

He left. Raymond sat at his desk and looked at the spreadsheet. The spreadsheet said they had enough money for one more week of payroll. Maybe two if he didn't pay the electric bill. He closed the spreadsheet.

Tyler walked over to his desk.

"Dad."

Raymond looked up.

"I'm leaving."

"Leaving? Leaving where?"

"Here. This town. I got a job in Cleveland. Starting Monday."

Raymond stared at him. "You got a job in Cleveland?"

"Yeah. My friend Tom's brother knows someone. It's at a plant on West 147th."

"When did you—"

"Doesn't matter." Tyler turned and walked out of the office. He walked across the factory floor, past the press machines, past the welding stations, past the guys who were pretending not to watch him leave. He walked out the front door and didn't look back.

Raymond sat in his office and listened to the factory run without him. The machines were still running. The metal was still coming out bent. The pile was still getting bigger. Nobody said anything because nobody wanted to talk about it.

He picked up the phone and dialed the electric company. He told them he couldn't pay the bill this month. He told them they could shut it off if they wanted to. He hung up and looked at the spreadsheet one more time.

Then he turned off the computer and went home.

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