Someone clocked in at 6:12 with a pensioner's card

—Aurora, have you opened Tuesday's log? —It's right in front of me, Ismael. That's why I'm calling you first. At 6:12 Eleuterio Basarte clocked in. —Right. —Eleuterio Basarte retired in 2023. I have the audit on Thursday, and according to my records a sixty-nine-year-old pensioner is walking into the plant. —He isn't walking in. He clocks in at six twelve and stays in the car with the radio on. —Have you seen him yourself? —Every Tuesday since March. I'm the maintenance man, Aurora: I open up at six. —Then tell me what he's doing. —He drives his daughter. Covadonga Basarte, they took her on in March for the Tuesday cleaning shift. They marked her card "being processed" and it's still being processed five months later. The turnstile at the entrance doesn't know names, it knows cards. —And she uses her father's. —Her father's opens the door. Nobody cancelled it in three years. —Ismael, I'm the head of personnel: if that comes out on Thursday, the fine doesn't land on the card. —I know. That's why I'm the one telling you and not her. Tell her to bring her ID tomorrow and make the card yourself. —She'd better bring it tomorrow without fail. —She's brought it three times, Aurora.