The morning started perfectly.
Arthur watched the first convoys depart. The lane system held. The timing held. The marks held. Everything moved like it had moved for weeks—smooth, predictable, efficient.
Then he heard shouting from Dock Four.
He walked over slowly. At first he thought it was a mechanical failure. A stuck wheel. A collapsed crate. Something he could see, measure, fix.
It was none of those things.
Two groups of workers stood facing each other. Cargo sat between them on the dock. Neither group was touching it.
---
Zack got there first.
He stood between the groups, hands on his hips. "What is this? Move the crates!"
One worker stepped forward. Dark hair, crossed arms. "They're doing it wrong."
The other group's leader—older, grey at the temples—stepped forward too. "We've always done it this way. It works."
"It's slow," the first worker shot back.
"It's our way."
Zack's voice rose. "I don't care whose way it is. Move the cargo."
Neither group moved.
---
