Chapter 3 - The Collapse Begins
By 10:00 AM on Friday, my phone screen was a constant cascade of notifications.
The first text message arrived from Grant at 10:14 AM.
“Nadia, where are you? The bank system is throwing an error on the payroll account. Did you mess with the network routing again?”
I didn't reply.
Thirty minutes later, another text popped up. This time, his tone had lost its casual authority:
“Nadia, answer your phone. The vendor payment bounced. The fleet manager is threatening to lock the delivery vans. Call me NOW.”
At noon, the panic spread to my father.
Arthur Ellison was a man who prided himself on control. He had spent his entire life dictating terms to his wife, his children, and his underpaid warehouse workers. When he realized that the company’s operating accounts were fundamentally empty—and that no magic infusion of cash was arriving to save them—his initial reaction wasn't fear; it was fury.
He left a voicemail that made my skin cold:
“Nadia! What the hell are you doing? Grant tells me the reserve line isn't clearing! Fix this software glitch immediately or so help me God, I will come down there myself!”
He still believed it was a technical glitch. He still believed that his "computer daughter" was just an incompetent tool who had messed up a password or a server connection.
By 2:00 PM, reality broke through their denial.
Ellison Distribution's primary supplier, Mid-West Paper Corp, officially canceled their credit line and placed a hold on three semi-truck deliveries sitting at the regional depot. Without paper stock, Ellison Distribution couldn't fulfill their largest contract—a municipal supply deal with the City of Albuquerque.
Simultaneously, forty-five warehouse and administrative employees received notification from their banking apps that their direct deposits had failed.
The office erupted into chaos. Workers walked off the floor, demanding answers from Grant. Grant, who knew nothing about accounting, ran into his corner office and locked the door.
By 4:00 PM, my brother sent the message that marked the end of their arrogance:
“Sis, this isn’t funny.”
A minute later, my father’s name flashed across the screen. He didn't leave a shouting voicemail this time. He sent a single, desperate text message:
“Please undo what you did.”
I leaned back in my office chair, looking at the notification panel on my phone.
Missed Calls: 68.
Text Messages: 42.
May you like
Voicemails: 12.
I took a sip of water, closed my laptop, and decided it was time to let them stew over the weekend.
