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and waved that enthusiastic, childish wave again.

“Oh Lord,” I said. “We’ve got to get you home. Where do you live?”

Lynn Montgomery explained that she lived 30 minutes away, and I devised a plan to get her home safely. I drove her Toyota as she sat in the passenger seat with a bucket on the floorboard, waiting for the inevitable. My coworker, Richard, who had offered to drive me home afterward, followed me in his truck.

The two of us walked her inside her house and set her down gently on her sofa like a blonde-headed throw pillow. We put her phone on the table next to her, along with a pack of saltine crackers, two aspirins, and a bottle of water, and then we left the head of HR’s house.

For brevity, I’ve left a lot out of this story, but let me close by saying this: The following day, Lynn Montgomery beat me to work and looked like a million bucks, which was equally as surprising as the night before. And also, she and I never spoke of the events of the previous evening again (or the sombrero), though I was showered with praise on my first performance evaluation with words like, “Amber is a compassionate, caring, get-things-done problem solver both on the factory floor and outside of the workplace.”

She eventually left the floor mat company, and the plant closed the following year. I lost track of Lynn Montgomery, but I think of her several times a month, when I pass that Mexican Restaurant. In my memory, I see her sitting at the bar holding a chunky cigar in her dainty, manicured hand, I see her waving her hands back and forth like windshield wipers, and most of all, I see that big, red sombrero, and I whisper, “Oh Lord.”