Coffee. Cigarettes. Three songs on loop. I’m Ross—forty-nine, married to Lydia, dad to two kids who burn through shoes like they’re made of paper, and the reluctant owner of a mortgage that always feels one size too tight. The factory I gave twenty-three years to shut down overnight. Padlock on the gate. Paper on the fence. “Thanks for your service.” This job was what I could find: a counter, a till, and hours to think.Continue reading…
