The engine roared to life.
Warm air spilled through the vents, and something inside me shifted with it.
What I Finally Saw
Up close, his fingernails weren’t painted rebellion.
They were bruised. Split. Cracked from warehouse pallets and night shifts.
Four jobs.
Warehouse mornings.
Deliveries afternoons.
Night cleaning.
Data entry past midnight.
Sleeping in his car between shifts because rent outpaced effort.
“I’m Arthur,” I said, suddenly ashamed I hadn’t offered it sooner.
“Caleb,” he replied, gripping my hand with a strength that didn’t belong to someone barely twenty.
That grip told a different story than the one I’d invented.
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