I felt a knot form in my stomach. I looked at his hands again. They were rough. Calloused.
“Two jobs?”
“Three,” he said, staring out the windshield. “Warehouse at night. Deliveries in the morning. Digital transcription on weekends.”
“That’s a lot of hustle,” I said, my voice softer. “Saving for a house?”
He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “Sir, I can’t even afford rent in this town anymore. The complex down the street raised rent by 40% last month. I’m not saving for a house. I’m saving for a deposit on a studio apartment.”
I looked out at his car parked on the street. The back seat was piled high with clothes, a pillow, and a cooler.
“You’re living in the sedan,” I realized.
He shrugged. “It’s temporary. It’s got a heater. It’s not so bad. Just… hard to keep the phone charged.”
I sat back against the seat. I thought about my empty four-bedroom house. I thought about how I judged him for being “soft” while he was working three jobs and sleeping in a backseat, hiding his bruised hands under paint so customers like me wouldn’t be grossed out.
He wasn’t soft. He was made of iron. He was just fighting a war I didn’t recognize because the battlefield had changed.
