I didn’t expect four dollars to change anything. Not my life, not anyone else’s. It was late, the kind of late when the fluorescent lights hum louder than your thoughts, and the hot-dog roller clicks like a metronome for a song no one’s singing. I was working the night shift at the gas station off Highway 52—coffee, cigarettes, three songs on repeat. I’m Ross, forty-nine, husband to Lydia, dad to two kids who outgrow shoes like it’s a sport, and the reluctant owner of a mortgage that feels a size too tight. The factory I gave twenty-three years to shut...
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