This is too much. Anders glares. "Maybe more than one person will walk out that door."
"What's that supposed to mean --?"
"People here are pretty sick of working for eight bucks an hour. We get no raises, no benefits, no consistent hours, and the company rakes in millions." Anders feels as if his nerves are exposed. He's absolutely convinced the man is going to hit him. He's startled; he thought he'd left this level of fear behind in high school.
"That's the industry standard," the man says. He narrows his eyes. "Pal."
"You got people here who don't even get enough to eat. You think that's a fair standard?"
The man looks at Anders -- he looks at the people nearby. He smirks. Most everybody is well-dressed.
A schizophrenic electricity fills the room: Anders is completely alert but also more tired than ever. He feels that everybody's attention is on him and nobody is with him. The other people all stand around, waiting. A horrible sense of defeat hovers on the fringe of his consciousness.
"What did you say your name was?" the man says. His voice is superficially polite, but it's edged with the appetite of an axe.
- Finn Harvor
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