I Do Not Answer After Hours

Summary

It was 9:07 PM. I had just swallowed two Tylenol and crawled under the duvet when my phone began to vibrate violently on the nightstand.

It was Greg, my department manager. Again.

This was his eighteenth call this month, always at this exact hour. During the day, he would lounge in his office, scrolling through his phone or playing games, never uttering a single word about the actual workflow. But the moment the clock struck eight in the evening, he would suddenly find a mountain of menial tasks to dump on me. Tonight, it seemed, would be no exception.