He paces up and down the counter like a caged animal. Some great tension on his heart. Thoughts black. The fryer is screaming an alarm. The bodies around him are salty and sweltering and rubbing against one another. Shouted orders. The air hums with cortisol. He sweats. His skin is greased. His options are few. There is a good person in there, crushed by misfortune. Good parents who happened to be poor. Far better to have bad parents who happened to be rich. Work hard they say. Work hard and prosper. He is at his limit. He can work no harder. This is as much as he will prosper. This is the end.
Paddy Dobson
22nd August 2021