Chapter 3: The Day Everything Changed

One afternoon, after finishing work, I lined up for food as usual.

My hands were stiff with cold, the backs cracked and bleeding. I shuffled forward, barely noticing the men around me, each face as blank as mine. The food line was the only break in the monotony.

Suddenly, I saw the newly transferred supervisor, frowning deeply as he stared at the cornbread in his hand.

He was young, maybe just a few years older than me, his face still round and unlined beneath a battered wool beanie. He stared at the cornbread like it was something that might bite him.

I thought he found the portion too small. I even hesitated, wondering if I should offer him some of my share to curry favor.

It was a dumb instinct—like a stray dog wagging its tail for scraps. But in places like this, you did what you could to survive.

But before I could decide, the supervisor abruptly stood up, raised his hand, and flung the cornbread to the ground, cursing loudly:

"This is worse than anything they served in my college dining hall back in Columbus!"

His voice echoed, sharp and bitter, bouncing off the metal siding of the mess tent. I blinked, stunned.

Me: "..."

My mouth hung open, words lost somewhere between shock and disbelief. Nobody ever spoke up like that—especially not the ones in charge.

Before I could react, the supervisor strode over to the food-serving station. Right in front of all the laborers, he kicked over the plastic bucket of food.

The bucket toppled, mush splattering across the frozen ground. People gasped. For a moment, the world felt like it had tilted off its axis.

The rest of us were stunned. The food was bad, but at least it filled our stomachs. Now that it was spilled, would we have to work all day on empty stomachs?

My heart thudded. Hunger made people desperate, and desperate people could turn ugly fast. I clenched my fists, half-expecting a fight to break out.

Many laborers grumbled under their breath:

"What kind of tantrum is this guy throwing now?"

"Is he trying to starve us to death?"

"This is ridiculous!"

The air crackled with tension. I glanced around, searching faces for any sign that someone might step forward and challenge him.

Facing the workers' anger, the supervisor just smiled faintly and waved his hand:

"Come on, I'll take you to eat something good!"

He sounded like the guys at the hardware store back in Dayton—plainspoken, but always polite. He had that cocky, confident grin you sometimes saw on the quarterback after a winning play—like he knew something we didn’t, and he was about to show us.