Narrator: Owen B. | Washington, USA
I worked nights in a distribution warehouse. Damaged packages went into a fenced area we called the cage. One of the latches stuck, so people regularly shouted for somebody to open it from outside.
I heard my name from there while I was stacking pallets. “Owen, give us a hand.”
I could see somebody crouching behind the boxes. Gray sleeve, back of a shaved head. I assumed it was Phil. I lifted the latch and held the gate open.
Nobody got up. I said, “Come on, mate,” although I’m not sure why. Phil and I didn’t talk like that.
The head rose a few inches. It was attached to the top of a cardboard box. I mean that literally. There was no neck, just skin meeting the corrugated edge. The sleeve was lying flat on the concrete.
I let the gate go. It swung shut and the latch dropped. From inside, my own voice said, “Owen, give us a hand.”
I reported someone messing with me. That was the only version I could get through without my voice shaking. The shift manager searched the cage and wrote it down as an unauthorised break.
I took the warning. Arguing would have meant explaining what I’d actually seen.
