The slick of avocado oil was the first sign. It coated the totes as its treacherous sheen under the harsh fluorescent lights. The smell, thick and cloying, hung in the air, clinging to everything. I grimaced, carefully stepping around the mess to reach the damaged products. Brian was nowhere in sight, so I grabbed the TC phone, its plastic casing cool against my palm, and started scanning. Each beep was a small act of salvage, marking down the ruined goods before they became a bigger problem. Alright, Talia, here's a story incorporating all those details:

Then Julie appeared. Her voice, usually a low murmur, was sharp, insistent. "Why do you have that?" I explained about the oil, the damaged items, the need to pitch them. "Give it to me," she insisted, her eyes fixed on the TC phone with an unsettling intensity. I moved to another tote, but she followed, her shadow looming. "Just give it to me." It wasn't the first time she'd pulled this, trying to bully me into handing over the TC. One time, she even ganged up on me. A knot of anxiety tightened in my chest.

Luckily, Phil was up at U-Scan, a silent witness to the escalating situation. His presence was a small comfort, a buffer against Julie's relentless pursuit. Emily had lent me the TC, a simple act of kindness that now felt like a lifeline. "Just let me know if you have any problems," she'd said. I should have known. Minutes later, Brian strolled back in, oblivious to the simmering tension, just as the "Julie incident" reached its peak.