Three months before I retired, my manager asked whether I could leave sooner. I’d worked there for twenty-nine years. I started when the warehouse had no heating. By the time I left, machines did most of the lifting, and I trained the people who kept them running. Over the years, I’d missed birthdays, changed vacations, and answered calls halfway through Sunday dinner. The morning my wife went into labor, I worked half a shift before going to the hospital. I used to tell that story proudly. When I gave notice, I expected the last few months to feel strange. They did. I was still called over whenever something stopped working, but I no longer received invitations to the meetings about it. My replacement asked questions. I answered them, then wrote the answers down so he wouldn’t have to remember everything at once. One afternoon, I heard my manager telling him that my retirement would finally take a big expense off the department’s budget. I stayed late that evening finishing the troubleshooting notes. The young man hadn’t done anything wrong. I didn’t want him stuck on his own. Last Friday was my final day. HR sent a checklist: access card, locker key, company jacket. By the time I’d returned everything, my manager had already left. There was no gathering. A few people said, “Enjoy yourself,” as I passed. In the break room, I took my old mug from the cupboard. A new employee looked up. “You’re not supposed to take things from here.”