Probation

The following Wednesday, the factory felt less like a workplace and more like a prison yard.

Jax sat in the glass-walled Supervisor's Office, staring at the stack of papers on Rhonda’s desk. They were pink carbon copies. Write-ups. Three of them.

1. Improper Chemical Storage (Unlabeled Spray Bottle). 2. Failure to Log Maintenance Check (Air Compressor). 3. Unsanitary Workspace (Grease on Workbench).

Deb had been thorough. She hadn't just audited him; she had autopsied him.

Rhonda sat across from him, peeling a clementine. The smell of citrus cut through the stale air of the office, sharp and acidic.

"She's trying to hang you, Jax," Rhonda said, popping a slice of fruit into her mouth. "And you’re handing her the rope." .

"It's petty bullshit, Rhonda," Jax argued, though his voice lacked its usual fire. "A dirty rag? Come on. We work in a stamping plant, not a hospital."

"It doesn't matter what it is," Rhonda said, wiping her sticky fingers on a tissue. "It matters that she documented it. Preston sees these reports. Three write-ups in a week? That puts you on a Performance Improvement Plan. One more slip, and corporate mandates a termination review."

Jax rubbed his face. He was so tired. He hadn't slept well in days. Stacy had bought a new mattress—memory foam—that felt like sleeping in quicksand.

"I'll clean the cage," Jax muttered. "I'll label the damn bottles."

"Good," Rhonda said. She leaned forward, her jewelry clanking against the desk. "Because frankly, Jax? You look distracted. You're walking around here like a zombie."

"I'm focused. I'm here every day."

"Physically, maybe. But mentally?" Rhonda tapped her temple. "You're somewhere else. Or maybe... someone else is keeping you on a short leash."

Bzzt. Bzzt.

Jax’s phone vibrated on the desk between them. The screen lit up.

Stacy: Location says you're in the office. Why aren't you answering?

Jax flinched. He grabbed the phone and flipped it over.

Rhonda saw it. She smirked. It wasn't a nice smile; it was the smile of a woman who knew exactly which cage her favorite animal was trapped in.

"She's tracking you?" Rhonda asked.

"It's for... family safety," Jax lied. "In case of an emergency."

"Right," Rhonda laughed dryly. "Safety. Listen to me, Jax. You wanted the wife back. You wanted the house. Well, you got them. But everything has a price tag. Looks like yours is your balls."

"Are we done here?" Jax stood up, grabbing the write-ups.

"We're done," Rhonda said, waving him off. "Go clean your cage. And tell Stacy I said hello. I'm sure she's watching."

Jax walked out of the office, his ears burning. He felt the eyes of the floor on him. He felt the vibration of the phone in his pocket like a phantom limb.

He walked back to the Maintenance Cage. Ryder was there, sweeping the floor with an intensity that suggested he was trying to avoid eye contact with the rest of the world.

"Did she fire you?" Ryder asked, leaning on the broom.

"Written warning," Jax said, tossing the pink slips onto the bench. "Deb is on a warpath."

"She's just hurt," Ryder said. "You embarrassed her."

"I survived her," Jax corrected. "There's a difference."

Bzzt. Bzzt.

Jax pulled the phone out.

Stacy: FaceTime me. Now.

Jax stared at the screen. He was at work. He was surrounded by loud machinery, greasy men, and a hostile ex-lover who was looking for any excuse to fire him. And his wife wanted to FaceTime.

"Is everything okay?" Ryder asked, noticing Jax's pale face.

"Yeah," Jax said. "Just... hold on."

He ducked behind the large tool chest, hiding from the main aisle cameras. He hit accept.

Stacy’s face filled the screen. She was in her car, wearing oversized sunglasses. She looked perfect. She looked suspicious.

"Hi," Jax said, trying to sound casual over the roar of Line 1.

"Show me the room," Stacy said. No hello.

"What?"

"Show me the room, Jax. Spin the camera around. I want to see who's in there with you." .

"Stacy, I'm at work. Ryder is sweeping. That's it."

"Show me."

Jax gritted his teeth. He held the phone up and did a slow pan of the cage. He showed the dirty workbench. He showed the shelves of parts. He showed Ryder, who looked confused and waved awkwardly at the phone.

"See?" Jax said, bringing the camera back to his face. "Just me and Ryder. Working."

Stacy studied the image. She seemed to be looking for something specific—a pink dress, maybe, or a black t-shirt.

"Okay," she said finally. "I'm picking up dinner. Do you want chicken or steak?"

"Chicken is fine."

"Don't be late tonight, Jax. 4:30 sharp. We have therapy."

"I know. I'll be there."

"Love you." It sounded like a threat.

"Love you too."

The screen went black. Jax leaned his head back against the cool metal of the tool chest. He felt like he couldn't breathe. He had saved his marriage, yes. But he felt like he was wearing a shock collar.

He stood up and walked back to the bench. Ryder was staring at him.

"Dude," Ryder whispered. "Was that... a room inspection?"

"Shut up, Ryder," Jax snapped.

"She doesn't trust you."

"She has no reason to trust me," Jax said, grabbing a rag. "I slept with half the factory. I earned this."

"Maybe," Ryder said. "But living like that? Having to check in every five minutes? That ain't living, Jax. That's doing time."

Jax didn't answer. He looked out through the wire mesh.

He saw Line 4. The temp operator was struggling with a jam. Misty wasn't there to fix it. Misty wasn't there to bring him cookies or tell him he was strong.

He looked toward the QC office. Deb was standing in the window, watching him. She wasn't holding a beer. She wasn't smiling. She was holding a pen, poised over another write-up pad.

She saw him looking. She didn't wave. She just tapped her wrist, signaling the time.

Tick tock.

Jax looked down at his wedding ring. It felt heavy. It felt tighter than it had yesterday.

"I need air," Jax said.

He walked out of the cage, heading for the loading dock. He needed five minutes where no one was watching him, judging him, or tracking his location.

***

Barb and Tammy were sharing a bag of pork rinds, enjoying the breeze.

"He looks rough," Tammy said, chewing loudly.

Jax was standing by the dumpster, staring at the horizon. He wasn't smoking. He wasn't on his phone. He was just standing there, gripping the railing like he wanted to rip it off.

"He looks like a dog that's been kicked one too many times," Barb agreed.

"I heard Stacy FaceTimed him," Tammy whispered. "In the cage. Made him show her the room to prove he wasn't with anyone."

Barb let out a low whistle. "That woman is thorough. I'll give her that. She put a GPS tracker on his soul."

"Do you think he's gonna crack?"

"Crack?" Barb laughed. "Honey, he's already cracked. Look at him. He's got Deb hunting him for sport on the inside, and Stacy hunting him for sport on the outside."

"And Misty?"

"Misty is the ghost," Barb said. "She ain't here, but she's haunting him. Every time Ryder walks by looking guilty? That's Misty. Every time Jax looks at that empty machine? That's Misty."

Barb crumpled the empty bag of pork rinds.

"Jax wanted to be the man," she said. "He wanted to have his cake and eat it too. Now he's choking on the crumbs."

"How long does he last?"

"I give him a week," Barb said. "A man can only wear a leash for so long before he remembers he has teeth."