Chapter 10: Montana Sky

On the fifth day after I left, I sprawled out in the tall grass just outside Bozeman, the sky so big it made my problems feel small. The air was sweet and clean, and for the first time in years, I almost felt free again—until my phone buzzed.

Marcus messaged me on Facebook Messenger about the company.

“Derek, let me tell you something ridiculous: the day after you left, Emily offended Liam. Our product has a one-year warranty, but Emily said you quoted Liam too low before, so it shouldn’t include free maintenance. She demanded that starting with the next batch, Liam must pay for maintenance and replacement parts. Now Liam wants to file an international lawsuit.”

I was speechless. The price I gave Liam was settled after many discussions with Grant Chandler, and it already included after-sales service costs. All of this was clearly stated in the contract. If they want to fight the contract in court, let them try.

Marcus continued, “You have no idea—after you left, Grant Chandler hired five or six people to take over your work, but it’s still a mess. He assigned one person to data analysis, two to platform business, and Emily still hasn’t figured out how to operate. She keeps looking at your old marketing plans. Yesterday, she made two R&D girls cry, saying their new product designs were trash.”

“By the way, you used to handle overseas sales customs clearance and freight forwarding, right? Now no one knows how to do it. Grant Chandler is panicking. I bet he’ll contact you soon.”

After hanging up, I sat for a long time. Actually, what Marcus mentioned was less than a fifth of my actual workload. Over the years, I’d been spinning like a top every day. Although I was just a small operations manager, I oversaw everything from product development to sales channels to after-sales service.

I don’t believe Grant Chandler didn’t know how much I did—he just pretended not to see.

Watching the clouds roll across the sky, I finally felt a sense of vindication, if only a little.

That night, I sat atop Elk Ridge, drinking beer and watching the sunset. Grant Chandler sent me a Facebook message. I opened it—it was a spreadsheet.

Then a voice message followed: “Derek, the spreadsheet is the packing list for the UK shipment. Handle the customs clearance and contact the freight forwarder. Fill in all the required details and send me the truck license plate and driver’s number once you’re done.”

The wind was cool up on the ridge, the stars just starting to flicker. I took a long sip of my beer, letting the silence answer for me. For once, the company’s chaos was no longer my problem.

I thought I was finally free—until my phone buzzed with a message that would drag me right back into the mess.