Story code: ST-000756
Part 3: With His Eyes Closed
Wade kept the box in both hands after Dana told him to close his eyes. He stood at the supply table near the lobby-side wall, elbows bent, fingers tucked under the softened bottom seam like he had picked that exact box up plenty of times before. The faded printing faced the aisle. The lid sat flat because he had made it sit flat.
Dana did not raise her voice. She just said, “Close your eyes, Wade. Sort three by feel.”
He looked at her for another second, then let out a breath through his nose and shut his eyes like he was humoring a child. It would have worked better if his hands had not already gone still in that careful, ready position.
Miles stayed near the wing opening with one hand on the back of a folding chair. Dust marked both sleeves. He was not pretending to work anymore.
Dana pointed at the table. “Top box first. Then the one under it. Then the loose stack on the shelf. Old masks together. Empty boxes flattened.”
Wade said, eyes still closed, “This proves nothing.”
“Do it anyway,” Dana said.
He ran his thumbs once along the edge of the top box, found the loose corner without searching, and pressed it down before lifting. Then he slid the box left, not right, leaving room on the table for the next one. It was the move you make when you already know how much space the flattened cardboard will need.
Nobody spoke.
He set the first box down, felt for the side flap, pinched exactly where the old adhesive had dried stiff, and opened it without tearing the seam. Then he tipped the contents into a neat stack, caught the lid before it bounced back, and folded the empty box flat in two quick motions.
The stage clock kept ticking over us.
Dana said, “Next one.”
Wade’s jaw tightened once. His eyes stayed shut. He reached down to the second box, tested the weight with a short lift, then said, “This one still has packets in the back corner.”
He did not say maybe. He did not fumble. He knew.
He set that box on the table, turned it ninety degrees, opened the side that would keep the packets from spilling, and pulled out two sealed bundles and one loose stack. He squared them by tapping the edges against the table. Then he flattened that box too.
Miles spoke for the first time in a low voice. “That was the one from the lower shelf behind the tape.”
Dana looked at him. “You sure?”
Miles nodded at once. “I put the tape in front of it this morning.”
Wade opened his eyes then, just for a second, before shutting them again. It was quick, but everybody near the table saw it.
Dana said, “No looking. Finish it.”
He made a small sound in his throat and reached toward the shelf. Not groping. Straight there. His hand passed over the tape rolls without touching them, landed on the last old mask box, and pulled it out clean from between two others without collapsing the stack around it.
That was the part that did it.
If he had really been guessing, he would have bumped something. He would have tested the shelf. He would have asked where the edge was. Instead he drew the box out smooth, lowered it to the table, and used one thumb to press the lid seam while his other hand slid under the bottom. He opened it from the safer side again.
Three loose packets. One damaged elastic. He set the damaged one aside without being told.
Then he flattened the third box and stacked all three broken-down cartons together in a square pile like that had always been the end of the job.
The room stayed so quiet I could hear the cardboard rubbing against cardboard.
Dana did not move for a beat. Her clipboard hung against her leg. Then she said, very even, “Open your eyes.”
Wade did.
The old mask stacks sat sorted in front of him. The empty boxes were collapsed. The damaged packet was by itself. His hands were still resting on the top flattened box.
He pulled them back and said, “I was following basic logic.”
Nobody answered him.
I set my marker on the table and said, “Basic logic doesn’t tell you which side opens without spilling or where the torn elastic packet was sitting.”
Miles looked from me to Dana and added, “He grabbed the shelf box from behind the tape. Didn’t touch anything else.”
Wade turned toward him. “Kid, all I did was reach forward.”
Dana lifted one hand before Miles could say anything more. She was still looking at the flat stack of empty mask boxes. “No,” she said. “What you did was sort inventory blind after spending half an hour saying you didn’t know the setup.”
Wade started talking over her. He said anybody could have done it, that the boxes were obvious, that this whole thing was ridiculous. But while he talked, he reached back to the table and, without looking down, fixed the top flattened box so the corners lined up perfectly with the others.
Dana saw that too.
She stepped around the table, took her clipboard under one arm, and pointed toward the backstage door. “Don’t leave,” she said. “If you know the mask storage flow that well, you’re finishing every leftover pandemic supply count in this room before you touch anything else. And Tessa is off this task.”
Wade stared at her. The stacks, the flattened boxes, and the damaged packet were still sitting there between us like labeled proof, only nobody had needed labels after all.