“I can’t stop looking at it,” he said, lighting another cigarette. He motioned the pack to Bob, a well-known nonsmoker, who took one and absently tucked it into the corner of his mouth. “How the hell did this happen?”
Bob made a croaking sound as all the words of tragedy wedged in his throat. They stood in silence from then on, smoking the pack down to an empty paper shell.
“You know you’re fired, right?” he asked Bob as the first morning light found its way into the horizon.
“Yeah, I know.”
In the end, they would both be fired, and the great ice cream spill of 1962 would never be forgotten.