Unrest on the shop floor.
You can just see the heads of the admin staff peeking around corners; membership smells blood in the water; finance is mutinous and wary. This has been a long time coming. Hours of meetings, before shift and after, over lunch, coffee, breakfast burritos, free donuts. They have pooled their resources and their faith, found a god Who answers.
Twenty phones chirp a reminder; twenty doors close quietly. The gentle click of so many locks engaging. On the door frames eraser dust, paper clips, the gel from inside a wrist rest, so His messenger may know them, and pass by.
Fifteen minutes. An hour. The floor falls silent again, the last echoes fading away into the drywall and peeling paint like soap into a sponge. They close up for the day, square their keyboards to their desks, power down.
Their feet sink into the carpet, but leave no trace.