he green light on the sealer line went red again, and three hundred flat-pack soap boxes slid sideways into the bin.
Frank set his clipboard on the packing table and reached for the emergency stop button, the yellow plastic worn smooth by twenty-three years of his thumb.
“That belt is slipping six inches every ten minutes,” I said?
“It is thirty years old, Margaret,” Frank said, pulling a wire brush from his back pocket to clean the glue nozzle. “Just like the rest of us. Your hands are looking a little stiff today.”
