He nodded, slow.
“Here’s the thing,” he said. “You’re not in trouble. You didn’t do anything wrong. But people are calling the main line asking if you work here. Some are praising. Some are… stirring.”
I felt my jaw tighten.
“Stirring how?”
He sighed like he hated this part of his job.
“Like they want to make it a whole spectacle. Like they want you to be the face of something.” He leaned back in his chair. “And I’m gonna say this once, and then we move on: keep your head down. Don’t go posting. Don’t go responding. Don’t go feeding it.”
I swallowed.
“Someone could figure out where I live,” I said quietly.
My foreman’s expression softened a fraction.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s why I’m telling you. People get weird when they think they’re part of your story.”
He stood up and opened a drawer. Pulled out a plain sheet of paper.
“Also,” he added, sliding it toward me, “if any reporter shows up here asking for you, you send them to me. You don’t say a word.”
I stared at the paper.
It was a list of basic safety reminders, but written in plain language.
Protect your identity.
Don’t engage.
Don’t escalate.
Things that should’ve been common sense.
Things that weren’t, anymore.
I nodded and tucked the sheet into my pocket like a man hiding a bruise.
As I turned to leave, my foreman stopped me with one more line.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, eyes steady, “my old man worked with his hands until they shook. He’d be proud of what you said.”
I didn’t trust my voice, so I just nodded and walked out.
Around lunchtime, I made the mistake of checking my phone again.
The video had crossed from local into national.
Different pages. Different captions. Same clip.
Somebody had reposted it with the words “THIS IS WHY WE NEED TO RESPECT TRADES” like it was a hammer to swing at anyone with a degree.
Somebody else had reposted it with “STOP SHAMING COLLEGE” like it was a shield.
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