I can clearly remember how they were dressed, surprisingly similar to one another—tan khakis and flannel button-down shirts—but for the life of me, I can’t recall any of their faces.
“Hey fellas,” I said as they badged their way through the locked door, “working on the weekend, huh?”
The first two men smiled and filed past. The last one stopped in front of me.
“Hey, buddy,” he said. “We were out for an early lunch and happen to have an extra soda. Want it?”
Without waiting for me to answer, he placed a red, shiny can of Coke on the desk. The same can of Coke that had been at the center of my recent moral struggle.
I looked up at him, dumbfounded. “Ahh…sure,” I managed to mumble.
“It’s all yours,” he replied.