Joey Balas was face down on the little bed tucked in the corner room of his parent’s basement. When they’d moved in a few years ago, the lower level had been one large, open area, but he and his second brother, Josh, had thrown up some walls—enclosed the shower in the back to make a full bathroom, carved out three makeshift bedrooms—one of which Joey was in now—and left the center space off the stairs open for laundry and their busted-ass ping-pong table.

Josh was kind of a fuck-up. He was only 23, but he’d already had a dozen different jobs, mostly construction, so he knew what he was doing. Joey didn’t really, he’d just turned 20 and was woefully inexperienced, still mostly guessing, but he liked to tinker. With everything really. Last year, he’d been bored so he’d watched a bunch of Youtube videos and figured out how to replace his parent’s water heater with a tankless one. It’d taken a few days, some cursing, and a burn on his arm, but Joey had been determined. Now, they had an endless supply of hot water.

General construction and plumbing aside, Joey’s real love was working on cars. One of his fondest memories from childhood was watching his dad mess with his Ford Bronco—always with a cigarette in his mouth and a wrench in his hand. Ronnie Sr hadn’t exactly sat him down and taught him, but he’d been the one to start the spark.

Joey had his own car now. A total piece of shit—a 2008 Cavalier with mismatched doors and a cracked windshield—but it ran, and he kept it that way himself.

He was proud of the work he’d done, even if no one else cared. He’d rebuilt the exhaust system after it rusted out—got a used pipe from the scrapyard, sawed off the old one with a hacksaw, and jerry-rigged the whole thing with clamps and a welding torch borrowed from one of Josh’s job sites. It was ugly, but it worked.

He’d replaced the front brake pads twice, changed the oil religiously, flushed the radiator when it started overheating, and swapped out the busted serpentine belt one-handed in the rain, just to prove he could.

One time, the starter motor died while he was stuck at a gas station and instead of calling for help, he crawled underneath with a hammer and knocked it back to life.

His proudest mod was rewiring the stereo system so he could blast his burned CDs. It wasn’t pretty—he had wires snaking out of the dash and a toggle switch taped to the cupholder—but when the bass hit, it felt like freedom.

Suddenly, the alarm went off on Joey’s cell and he sat up with a grunt, a thin blanket half-draped over his lap like he’d gotten tangled up sometime in the night. His blond hair stuck out in a dozen directions, flattened on one side, fluffed up on the other like a golden dandelion gone to seed. A faint red crease ran down his cheek from the pillow, and a crusted line of drool clung to the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t bother wiping it. He just blinked slowly at nothing, like his brain was still buffering.

After a moment, his sleepy green eyes—soft, the color of moss after rain—darted to the side table where his phone glowed and he reached out and silenced it, then ruffled a hand through his hair with a yawn.

The room around him wasn’t a total disaster—he didn’t live in filth—but there was a layer of boy chaos in every corner. The twin bed, shoved into the far wall beneath the narrow window, was unmade, the comforter half-kicked to the floor and the fitted sheet barely clinging to one corner of the mattress. Two pillows, one limp and the other flat as a pancake, bore faded stains that came from sleep drool and god knows what else.

The walls were unfinished cinderblock, but Joey had taken a can of spray paint to them and covered one half in a checkerboard of dull red and flat black. A real, rusted stop sign was bolted above his bed, next to a Polaroid photo of him and Josh as kids grinning like idiots at a county fair. There was a beer can pyramid in progress on the windowsill, a lava lamp that didn’t work, and a set of old car speakers he hadn’t wired up yet.

In the opposite corner sat a pile of laundry—not huge, but definitely sour and beside it, an old gaming chair that no longer reclined was pushed up against a makeshift desk made from a door on top of two milk crates. The desk was littered with half-drunk energy drinks (Red Bull was his go-to), a half-full ashtray, and a small ceramic skull that doubled as a weed stash jar. His bong—chipped but beloved—rested on a folded towel by the mini-fridge, which hummed louder than it cooled.

The scent of cigarettes clung to everything, especially the hoodie tossed over the desk chair. He always cracked the basement window when he smoked, but it didn’t help much. Smoke had seeped into the brick, the bedding, even the carpet scraps his mom had laid down to make the floor more “livable.”

It was cluttered. It was grimy. It was his.

And Joey, hopeless, disheveled, was no more together than his chaotic room. But there was something heartbreakingly cute about him. Sleepy and soft and still half in a dream. A boy you wanted to protect before you even knew why. A boy who hadn’t been given much, but still tried to give the world his best anyway.

Still groggy, he rubbed his adorable face, then bounced out of bed and padded across the hall to the bathroom for a piss. He was skinny in the way some boys just were, all long limbs and knobby knees, his shoulders narrow and his collarbones sharp. He was wearing a pair of sweats and nothing else. The pants hung dangerously low on his hips, the drawstring missing months ago, and when he scratched absently at his naked belly, it only made the hollow dip beneath his ribs more obvious.

He yawned again, so big his jaw popped. He was barely awake, but moving. That was Joey—never still for long. He had a scrappy kind of puppy energy, easy and fast and ready for anything. It was by far the most endearing thing about him.

And he was in a hurry today. It was Monday morning and he was on his way to his new job.

A couple weeks ago, he’d landed an apprenticeship at a local car shop. It had been a week, one glorious week at Chuck’s Auto Repair and Joey was eager to start his second because he liked this job. Liked the way the engines sounded when they came back to life. Liked the smell of oil and burnt rubber. Liked being part of something, even if it was just sweeping floors or fetching parts.

Cheerful, Joey started whistling off key as he finished using the facilities, then kicked off his sweats and stepped into the shower, bracing as the hot water hit his skin.

The warmth helped wake him up. He tipped his head back, letting the water beat down on his neck, fingers pushing through his messy blond hair.

He liked this job. A lot.

It wasn’t glamorous—he wasn’t pulling engines or rebuilding transmissions—but he was finally in a garage, part of the crew. Learning. That counted for something. For once, it felt like maybe he was doing something right.

Just don’t screw it up today…

That thought soured the back of his throat. He still wasn’t sure about the part he’d ordered Friday. Something about the label had thrown him—but he’d made his best guess, squinted hard, matched what he could from the clipboard. It had looked right… close enough, anyway. And no one had said anything when he left.

He hoped it was fine.

Still thinking about it, he toweled off quickly, threw on a hoodie and jeans, and headed upstairs.

It was early October, and the kitchen was bright with cold morning light. The back door stood wide open, chilly air leaking in through the busted screen. His mom, Linda, barefoot in a fraying robe, stood on the stoop ushering the dogs in.

“Come on, boys, inside!” she called, waving her arm. “It’s freezing out here!”

Ronnie Sr. was already gone—had left at the crack of dawn for the factory job he’d held for over twenty years. Same lunchbox, same thermos, same tired steps out the door. It was just Linda and the dogs now, her breath fogging in the air as she coaxed them back inside, muttering about frost.

Joey stepped into the room just in time to get caught in the stampede.

First came Capone, their ankle-biter terrier, yipping with excitement. Then Scooby, the middle-sized mutt, always trotting with attitude. Last came Kush, the massive Rottweiler mix, who practically had to duck to get through the door.

Joey dropped to a crouch, arms open. “H-Hey, boys—hey! Th-There ya are!”

Capone leapt up, licking his chin. Scooby nudged at Joey’s hand with his snout, and Kush just leaned his entire bulk against Joey’s chest, sighing like an old man.

“Aww, d-did you miss me?” Joey asked, grinning as he crouched to pet all three, scratching behind Capone’s ears, rubbing Scooby’s chest, and giving Kush a hearty pat on the side. “I-I know. I was gone all night. B-bet you c-cried, huh?”

Capone yapped as if in reply, licking at his chin, and Joey laughed, pulling the dog against his chest for a hug.

This was where he got his affection—from paws and noses and fur, not from words. Not from people. Definitely not his family. They weren’t the loving type.

From the porch, Linda came back in and pulled the door shut with a grunt, rubbing her arms. “Damn near froze my tits off,” she mumbled. Her robe hung askew, and her hair was sleep mussed. “They were already barking at something. Probably raccoons again. Or the neighbor’s damn cat. And my head’s been pounding since, like, four.”

Joey set Capone down and stood. “You s-sleep okay?”

She shrugged, rubbing her temple. “Not really. My head’s been awful. I think it’s the weather.” Her voice dipped lower as she reached for her little orange bottle on the windowsill. “I might need a ride to Shanda’s later. Just for a couple.” She dry-swallowed one of the pills with a wince, then hovered, eyeing the bottle like she was thinking about taking a second.

Joey didn’t say anything. He just brushed dog hair off his hoodie, his mouth tight.

Linda’s doctors had started prescribing her oxycodone fifteen years ago to help with her migraines. Some days she only took one, other days… more. And sometimes, when her prescription ran out early, Joey would drive her across town to Shanda’s, her “friend” with a crooked smile and a bedroom full of half-used pill bottles.

He used to think it was harmless. But he’d been hearing stories—about people OD’ing on the same shit, about fentanyl laced in everything, about how one tiny slip could mean the end. And that scared him. Not that he’d ever say it out loud.

This was how people got lost. This was how moms became ghosts in their own kitchens.

“I-I c-could maybe c-call off,” Joey offered, suddenly unsure. “If y-you—”

“No, no,” she said quickly, waving him off. “I’m fine, baby. You got work. Don’t screw this up.”

He nodded, jaw tight.

She managed a smile as she leaned down to pet Kush. “I’m proud of you, you know.”

Joey blinked. “Y-Yeah? Thanks.”

“I mean it,” she said, eyes glassy from either the light or the pills. “You’re gonna do great today.”

He didn’t believe it. Not really. But he smiled anyway.

He gave each dog one last pat, then turned for the door, stuffing a granola bar in his hoodie on the way out. He had ten bucks to his name, no gas, and a growing ball of dread in his stomach about that part he ordered—but hell, he was still going.

It was Monday, his second week, and maybe, just maybe, he could keep this job.

Joey stepped outside, hood up, breath fogging in the cool morning air. His beat-up Cavalier sat angled in the driveway, two tires just barely kissing the concrete. He climbed in, stuffed the key into the ignition, and gave the dashboard a gentle pat like he was coaxing a temperamental pet.

“C’mon, girl…”

With a reluctant groan, the engine sputtered to life.

Sighing with relief, Joey backed down out of the driveway and as he took off down the road, he lit up a cigarette and rolled down the window to let the smoke curl out into the gray morning. He squinted against the rising sun, its sharp glare already too much for his sleepy green eyes. His jaw cracked with another yawn, blond hair sticking out from under his hoodie in soft tufts, his cheek still pink from where it’d been pressed to his pillow. He was still a little warm from bed, slouched behind the wheel like he wasn’t quite real yet—just some sleepy ghost in jeans and scuffed boots, floating through the early light.

Warren, Ohio passed by in a patchy blur—this forgotten old town trying to hold itself together with duct tape and expired lotto tickets.

Boarded-up windows. Dirty gas stations. Dollar stores stacked like tombstones. Liquor stores on every block, their signs faded and flickering. Houses leaned into each other like tired old men trying to stay upright. The only thing growing was rust.

It was a dump. But it was his dump.

Joey didn’t flinch at the busted-up porches, or the tangled lawns littered with bikes and beer cans. He just drove, cigarette dangling from his lips, elbow on the window frame, face unreadable.

Warren was their lovely little slice of economic despair, and he was stuck here, just like everybody else. But he was okay with it. It was familiar. He knew the rhythm of the cracks in the road, the way the sun always hit the laundromat at this hour, the curve where the stop sign had been knocked down again and never replaced.

He yawned again and reached into his hoodie pocket for another smoke—fingers fumbling the fabric—but came up empty.

“Shit,” he muttered. He shook the empty pack, gave it a sad glance, then tossed it in the passenger seat.

Guess he was stopping at Wally’s. He didn’t really have the money for it, but he could use an energy shot, too, if he was going to stop anyway.

Decision made, he turned left, tires crunching into the crumbled lot of Wally’s Express. The little corner gas station had a sagging roof and a flickering sign, and the front window was plastered in ads for cigarettes, scratch-offs, and cheap beer. One corner of the glass was cracked and held together with tape. A plastic owl with googly eyes sat perched on the awning, pretending to scare off birds.

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed like they were annoyed to still be on. The air smelled like stale coffee, cheap perfume, and a hint of bleach. Behind the counter was a girl with heavy eyeliner and a lip ring, blowing a bubble with her gum. Her name tag read Brittany, though the ‘N’ had been replaced with a glitter heart.

Joey pushed the door open, bells jingling overhead, trying not to look like a complete idiot, which he often did.

“Well, look who it is,” Brittany smirked.

Joey scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the counter, then the floor, then her, then back to the counter. “H-hey,” he mumbled. “Uh. M-morning.”

“You’re out already?” she asked, popping her gum.

Joey laughed, weak. “Y-yeah… m-must’ve had a rough w-weekend.”

Brittany raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Bet you did.”

Joey felt his cheeks heat, the way they always did when someone looked at him too long. He wasn’t attracted to her, but she was confident—and that made her terrifying. He tugged his hood down further, suddenly feeling very small and skinny. “Got the b-blue pack?” he asked, gesturing vaguely behind her.

“Kools?” she turned to grab them from the shelf, and that was his opening.

Joey’s hand dipped beneath the counter shelf—quick, practiced—and snatched a neon green energy shot just above the candy. He palmed it fast and let it slide down into his hoodie pocket. Then he glanced over and saw a lighter—bright orange—and thought, Why not?

That, too, disappeared.

“Cash or card?” she asked, turning back.

“C-cash,” Joey mumbled, pulling out the crumpled ten from his pocket and handing it over.

Brittany handed him his change, eyeing him with an amused smile. “You always look like you just got caught doing something bad.”

He blinked, caught off guard, heart stuttering. “W-what? N-no. Nuh-uh.”

Her grin widened. “Relax, I’m messing with you.”

Joey laughed too hard. “R-right. T-totally.”

She shook her head, still smiling as he made a beeline for the door, bells jingling behind him. She watched him go, probably thinking he was just a weird, awkward stoner who had no idea how to talk to girls.

She’d had no idea she’d just been robbed. She never did. Joey was just that slick.

Outside, the boy in question slid back into the driver’s seat, the stolen energy shot and lighter burning like a warm little secret in his pocket. Joey was grinning like a kid who’d gotten away with sneaking candy before dinner. His hands were still shaking, just a little, but he popped the cap off the energy shot and knocked it back in one gulp, grimacing at the sharp taste.

He wasn’t a real thief. Not like the guys on TV or anything. He’d just… always done this.

When he was a kid, it had started with a candy bar. Then it was shampoo. Socks. A pair of earbuds once, when his had busted and no one had the money for new ones. His mom had said next week—but next week never came. So Joey figured it out on his own.

Shoplifting was easy, useful, and kind of fun.

And he’d never really stopped.

His parents still didn’t have a lot of money, and even when they did, it was never managed right. Joey had learned early not to ask. If he needed something and he didn’t have the cash, which was often, he just got it himself. The hard way.

He fired up the lighter and lit his new smoke with a satisfied flick, exhaling slow. The nicotine hit his bloodstream like a warm pat on the back.

He smiled to himself.

Yeah. He could handle today.

Joey pulled into the lot at Chuck’s Auto, his tires crunching over the loose gravel. The place was half-lot, half-junkyard, with the main shop squatting in the center like a greasy little outpost. Rusted car parts lined the chain-link fence, a broken motorcycle frame leaned against the dumpster, and a giant American flag hung limp from a bent pole near the door.

He parked crooked, as usual, in the far corner of the lot and turned off the engine with a little pat to the steering wheel. “Good girl,” he murmured. Then he tucked his cigarettes into his hoodie pocket and stepped out into the morning chill.

His boots thudded against the concrete as he made his way toward the garage bay. Inside, the air was already warm from machines and fumes, the familiar scent of oil, coolant, and burnt rubber thick in the air. The radio played classic rock from some dusty speaker on a shelf. Joey’s heart did a little flip of excitement, like it always did walking into a place where things got fixed.

“Heyyy,” came a voice from across the bay.

It was Nate, one of the full-time guys. Mid-thirties, tatted arms, dark under-eye circles like he hadn’t slept in weeks. He was leaned over an engine with a wrench in hand, grease smeared across his cheek like war paint.

Joey perked up. “M-morning.”

Nate gave a nod, then eyed him briefly before turning back to the engine. “Chuck’s lookin’ for you.”

Joey blinked. “O-oh. Y-you sure?”

Nate didn’t look up. “Said to send you in soon as you got here.”

Joey’s stomach turned a little, sour and tight. His fingers twitched in the pocket of his hoodie, brushing the edge of his lighter. He forced a smile. “A-alright. C-cool.”

He tried not to think too hard as he crossed the bay, weaving around toolboxes and broken-down cars toward the small office tucked in the back. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Chuck just wanted to check in. Maybe he wanted to say good job last week, or hey, kid, you’re doing alright—something normal. Something chill.

But then again…

Friday.

Friday had been… weird.

He remembered standing at the counter with the clipboard, trying to read the part list for a customer’s transmission. The letters and numbers had all started to blur. He thought he’d figured it out—he’d stared at the paper, guessed based on what little he recognized, and ordered the part he hoped was right.

Chuck hadn’t said anything at the time, but he’d had that look on his face. That quiet, frustrated look Joey had come to dread.

Still. He hadn’t meant to screw anything up.

He reached the door and paused. His reflection stared back at him in the narrow window—messy blond hair, sleepy green eyes, hoodie streaked with something dark from last week’s work. He looked young. Too young to be taken seriously. He straightened up, gave himself a little slap on the cheek, and pushed inside.

Chuck looked up from behind the desk. The office was cramped, windowless, with one fan humming in the corner and a dusty filing cabinet stuffed full of who-knew-what. The air smelled like stale coffee and air freshener.

“Close the door,” Chuck said.

Joey obeyed. “S-sorry I’m l-late. I—I stopped for—”

“You’re not late.” Chuck didn’t smile. He wasn’t a mean guy, but he had a serious face and a habit of pinching the bridge of his nose when he was about to say something he didn’t want to. He did it now.

Joey’s chest tightened.

Chuck sighed. “Look, kid. I like you. You show up, you try, you got a good attitude… but Friday, that part mix-up cost us a whole job. We had to reorder everything. Customer was pissed.”

“I—I th-thought I—I ordered the r-right one—”

Chuck held up a hand. “I know you did. But this isn’t a guessing game. I can’t have someone out there winging it when it comes to orders or inventory. This ain’t a playground.”

Joey nodded, eyes downcast.

Chuck looked at him hard. “Be straight with me, Joey. Can you… can you actually read that clipboard?”

Silence.

Joey’s heart dropped into his stomach like a weight. His throat went dry. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first. Then, barely a whisper— “…N-not really.”

“Jesus.” Chuck leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly, rubbing his face with both hands like this explained a hundred small things at once. “I thought you graduated high school?”

“I—I did,” Joey said quickly, too quickly. His face flushed hot. “I—I g-graduated. I j-just… it didn’t really… h-help.”

Chuck stared at him.

Joey’s cheeks burned. He felt small. Stupid. He always felt stupid. “I—I c-can figure m-most stuff o-out. I—I’ve g-got my ways…”

“I’m sure you do,” Chuck said, not unkind. Just tired. “But this job’s fast-paced. I got five guys out there already stretched thin. I can’t have someone second-guessing part numbers or playing memory games with the orders. You get that, right?”

Joey nodded, swallowing hard. His ears were burning. He wished he could melt straight through the floor.

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad,” Chuck added, softer now. “But I need guys who can keep up. This… this just ain’t gonna work out right now.”

Joey didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat was tight and his stomach was turning. He just stood there, swallowing it all down—another chance gone, another job lost. And this time, it was his fault. He couldn’t even pretend otherwise.

Chuck pulled a folded bill from the drawer and slid it across the desk. “Here. For the week.”

Joey stared at it. He didn’t move.

“You’ll land somewhere better,” Chuck said. “You’ve got hustle. You’re a smart kid, Joey. Just… figure this part out.”

Joey gave the barest nod. He couldn’t trust himself to speak. He turned and left the office, head down, the door clicking shut behind him.

Out into the sharp sun, the smell of oil and heat, the air buzzing with sounds he wouldn’t get to hear tomorrow. As he walked out, the guys in the engine bay didn’t even look up.

He climbed into his car, sat there a long second before twisting the key in the ignition. The Cavalier coughed, groaned, and started. At least she hadn’t given up on him.

He didn’t cry. Not yet.

He just stared at his hands on the wheel.

Then he lit a cigarette with that stolen lighter and drove off with his jaw tight and the road blurry beneath him.

Joey didn’t bother turning the radio on. He just drove, windows cracked, smoke curling out into the morning air, the taste of failure still bitter in his throat. The fifty-dollar bill Chuck had given him sat folded in his hoodie pocket like a quiet insult. He knew Chuck hadn’t meant it that way, but still. Getting paid to leave? That stung.

The roads of Warren stretched out ahead of him—cracked and uneven, like everything else in this place. Old tires thumped over potholes. Rust bloomed on mailboxes. Half the houses sagged like they were just tired of standing. But this was home. Joey had grown up on these streets. Knew every alley, every curve, every broken streetlight.

He also knew what people thought of him.

Stupid. That was the word that had followed him since before he even knew what it meant. Since kindergarten, probably. Maybe earlier.

It had started with the stutter, his stupid speech impediment. When he was younger, it was bad. Real bad. Some days, he couldn’t get a full word out without it crumbling into pieces. And when you’re a kid who can’t talk right, nobody waits around to figure you out. They just assume the worst.

His mom, Linda, had tried. He remembered that. She’d taken him to speech therapy. Filled out paperwork. Told him to slow down and breathe when he got stuck. She cared, she really did—but life had other plans. Ronnie Jr. was always starting fights, getting into trouble. Sara was dramatic, always sobbing over something. And Josh—Josh was already halfway to being the golden boy. Charming and athletic, he was signed up for all the pee-wee teams the district offered, cocky, always busy.

And Joey, the youngest, got lost in the noise.

So when school started and the teachers couldn’t understand him, they didn’t ask questions. They just stuck him in special ed. That was it. No more speech help. No reading assessments. Just a room full of other forgotten kids, bored aides, and worksheets no one explained.

No one noticed he couldn’t read. It wasn’t important at the time and when they finally figured it out, it was too late. He wasn’t in school to learn anymore—he was there to be babysat. Passed from one grade to the next with barely a glance. High school was a blur of missed classes and fake smiles. Half the time, he didn’t even go. And when he did, he kept his head down. Tried not to draw attention. What was the point? The work they gave him was insulting—baby stuff. Worksheets with big letters and cartoons in the margins. He knew what it meant. They’d given up on him.

Everyone had.

And Josh, three years ahead, hadn’t been any help. Joey thought maybe, once, that his big brother would step in, tell the others to shut up when they teased him in the halls. But Josh had his own demons—sports and pills, mainly. He was too busy being the star player and the screw-up all at once. There wasn’t room in that act for little brother Joey.

Even at home the teasing didn’t stop. His siblings thought it was hilarious. Ronnie especially. “I should buy you some baby books for Christmas, Joey. Big letters. Bright colors. You might get through the first page if you try real hard.” Every joke landed like a slap. Sara would laugh along. Josh would smirk and look away.

Only Linda understood. She never said much, but Joey could tell. She squinted at mail for too long, used her finger to track words on food labels. She’d say her eyes hurt, or the print was too small. But Joey saw the truth—she struggled too. And she felt guilty. Like maybe if she’d had more time, more help, he wouldn’t have ended up like this.

Luckily, his stutter had improved over the years. He could usually get his point across now. Still tripped sometimes, especially when he was tired or nervous. But it didn’t matter. The damage had been done. Everyone already had their idea of who Joey Balas was.

And worst of all?

He’d started to believe it too.

He’d never read a book. Couldn’t fill out a form without getting dizzy. Recognized logos, signs, the names of stores. But anything more than a couple words? His brain just fogged over. It was like the letters turned to smoke and vanished before he could catch them.

So yeah. Chuck had looked surprised when Joey admitted he couldn’t read. Like, “Didn’t you graduate?”

And Joey had wanted to scream with frustration. He was so utterly tired of his life.

He lit another cigarette, watching the smoke drift as the streets rolled by. It wasn’t that he didn’t try. He had. He’d tried a hundred times. But you can’t learn to read in a class where no one expects you to. Where no one thinks you ever will.

He’d made it out with a diploma somehow. A miracle, probably. But it didn’t mean shit. Not when he was still getting fired for things other guys didn’t even have to think about.

It wasn’t funny. Not the way his siblings acted like it was. Not the way strangers assumed he was lazy or slow. It was fucking life-ruining. Not knowing what a label says. Not being able to read a menu, or a medicine bottle, or a job application, or a fucking text.

It was like the world was written in a language he didn’t know—and no one had ever taught him.

Joey exhaled hard through his nose and turned down his street, cigarette trembling slightly between his fingers. Another job gone. Another reminder.

He wasn’t stupid. But he felt stupid.

And he didn’t know how to stop.

Joey pulled into his parent’s driveway and cut the engine. The Cavalier ticked quietly as it cooled, the smell of exhaust mixing with the damp autumn air. From the outside, the house looked the same as it always did—peeling paint, crooked porch, the busted screen door rattling in the wind.

He sat there for a moment, finishing his cigarette, not quite ready to go inside. Then he flicked his butt out the window, shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket and felt the crumpled fifty Chuck had given him. With another sigh, he climbed out and stepped through the front door.

“Joey?” Linda’s voice floated from the kitchen, surprised.

“Y-yeah, it’s me,” he called, kicking his boots off by the door and trudging toward her voice.

She stood at the sink in her fraying robe, hair pulled up in a messy clip. Morning light spilled through the cracked blinds, catching the steam from her coffee cup. She gave him a once-over, her brow creasing. “You’re home early.”

Joey shifted his weight, looking at the floor. “Yeah. C-Chuck… l-let me go.”

Linda’s shoulders fell. She didn’t say anything for a second, just exhaled like the news didn’t surprise her but still hurt to hear. Then she stepped closer and patted his arm, the way she did when words felt like too much. “I’m sorry, baby,” she murmured.

He tried to shrug it off, forcing a weak smile. “It’s f-fine. Guess I could, uh… run you b-by Shanda’s if you w-wanted. S-see if she’s got a-anything.”

Linda waved her hand lazily. “I’m good for now. Maybe before dinner tonight, though.” She turned back to the sink, rinsing a bowl. “We need to run to the store, too, if we’re going out—pick up a few things.”

The word dinner hit him like a rock to the gut. “Wait… t-that’s tonight?”

“Monday,” Linda said, like it should’ve been obvious. “Sara’s bringing the kids, Josh’ll be here, and Ronnie said he’s coming too.”

Joey groaned. “C-can’t wait for t-that.”

“They’re all adults, Joey,” Linda said, scrubbing at a plate with a sponge. “It’s not like they’re going to make fun of you anymore.”

Yeah, Joey thought with a grimace. Adults who’d still get a kick out of dragging him through the mud. He could already hear Ronnie cracking wise about getting “laid off for alphabet crimes” or whatever dumb shit he’d come up with.

But Joey didn’t argue. Just mumbled, “I—I’m gonna l-lay down f-f-for a bit,” and headed for the basement stairs.

The dogs followed, nails tapping the steps—Capone in front, Scooby lumbering after, Kush bringing up the rear.

His room was dim, the red glow from the string lights above mixing with the faint stale smell of old cigarettes and weed. The black-and-red brick walls made it feel smaller than it was, and the crooked stop sign over the bed watched him like an old joke he’d never bothered to take down.

Joey dropped onto the bed, dragging the milk-crate desk closer so he could reach his bong. Capone hopped up, sniffed the air, then jumped right back down. Scooby gave him a look and retreated toward the stairs. But Kush, loyal as ever, curled against Joey’s hip. The other dogs hated the smell of weed, but not Kush. Thus, the name.

Joey sparked the lighter, took a long pull, and let the smoke roll out slow. He leaned back against his pillow as the familiar weight sank into him, blurring the sharp edge of this morning’s humiliation.

Halfway through his second hit, his mind wandered. Maybe he could ask Josh about getting on somewhere he knew people, maybe on one of the many construction sites he’d worked at. Josh still had connections. The thought sat there, heavy, tangled with the memory of every other job he’d tried in the last year. He’d tried over and over, but none of them had stuck. Something always happened. Wrong hours, wrong boss, some screw-up that landed square on him. It was always something.

And without steady work, moving out was just a pipe dream. And so, here he stayed.

He took another slow inhale, set the bong aside, and let his head tip back against the pillow. Maybe he’d mow the lawn later, do something that looked productive. Linda would appreciate it. But the high was already settling over him like a blanket, and Kush’s steady warmth pressed in close.

Yeah. Maybe later.

His eyes slid shut, and the quiet, stillness of the house pulled him under.

By three, the day had blurred into chores. Joey woke up around eleven, mowed the patchy backyard until the mower choked on wet leaves, then drove Linda to Shanda’s and waited in the car while she went inside for her fix. On the way back, they hit the discount grocer for milk, ground beef, beans, and whatever off-brand cans were two-for-one. Cheap dinner in a plastic bag. Home again, Linda started browning meat in a dented skillet, and Joey drifted out to the driveway to mess with his car because it was the only thing that made sense.

He popped the hood, propped it with a vise grip because the rod was gone, and started tinkering—tightened a wobbly battery terminal, wiped grime off the MAF sensor, replaced a wiper blade with one he’d found in the trunk, just… stayed busy.

After four, Ronnie Sr. pulled in the drive and parked behind Joey. He lumbered up the walk, lunchbox in hand, beer gut ahead of him like a blunt battering ram. Twenty-something years at the factory had pressed all the words out of him and he gave Joey a grunt—a standard greeting—then went inside. Joey could picture the rest: boots by the mat, thermos on the counter, then he’d collapse into the recliner, beer cracked, TV on too loud.

Joey bent back over the engine.

Thirty minutes later, a sleek, silver sedan parked along the curb. Ronnie Jr. climbed out—fresh fade, neat beard, gold chain, a smart watch thrown in your face every time he gestured. The oldest at 28, he looked like money even when he wasn’t. He sauntered up the driveway, totally full of himself.

“Still babysitting that lawnmower with doors?” he asked with a chuckle, flicking Joey’s fender with two fingers.

Joey half-smiled. “Sh-she runs.”

“Barely.” Ronnie’s eyes ran over Joey—grease on the hoodie, old boots, too many nerves. “You look… employed.” He smirked, like it was a joke. “Good for you, kid.”

Joey opened his mouth, then closed it. Ronnie clapped him on the shoulder—too hard—and breezed inside to go brag to Mom and Dad about whatever new “business” he was cooking. Joey knew the basics. He ran a check cashing place on the rough end of town, guys always coming and going, back office no one talked about. Money orders, “fees,” envelopes. Not legit, not with Ronnie’s grin on it.

Another fifteen minutes passed before a minivan squealed to the curb next. Sara climbed out, hair in a messy bun, face pinched from a double at the diner. The second eldest at 26, she was a single mom with three kids. Isabel, 11, trailed behind, backpack half-zipped, trying to keep up. Brian, 8, barreled past her, already swinging a stick. And Octavia, or Tay-Tay as Joey called her, was 4, and she jumped down last, a tutu over her leggings, her pink shoes on the wrong feet.

“Inside,” Sara snapped, herding them toward the door. “Do not start with me. We are not doing a meltdown in the yard.”

Tay-Tay saw Joey and bee-lined anyway, slamming into his legs. “Joey!”

Joey laughed and scooped her up. “Hey, Tay-Tay.” He tapped her nose. “Shoes are s-switched.”

“I like it,” she declared.

“Fair.” He set her down and ruffled Brian’s hair which the boy tolerated like a cat. Beside him, Isabel gave Joey a shy smile that didn’t reach her eyes. He clocked the worksheet crumpled in her hand—big letters, phonics. He pretended not to see her tuck it deeper into her bag.

Sara shot Joey a tired look as she dragged the kids inside. “Hey Joey.”

“Hey.”

The four of them disappeared inside and Joey went back to his car.

Another twenty minutes passed before Josh finally showed. He slid out of a beat-up coupe Joey had never seen before—probably something he’d borrowed from a friend—and shuffled up the walk. He was too thin, too pale, still stupidly good-looking with those blue eyes, but even so, they were glassy, sliding past things instead of landing on them.

“Hey,” Joey said, hope rising before he could stop it. “Y-you know anybody hiring? I—I could really use—”

Josh snorted, not unkind, just far away. “Nope.” He moved to pass.

Joey tossed his wrench and followed. “B-but you’ve worked everywhere. S-someone’s gotta be—”

They hit the living room and walked straight into the whole family: TV blaring some game show, Ronnie Sr. in the recliner with a beer open, Linda clattering in the kitchen doorway, Ronnie Jr. lounging on the arm of the couch like a prince, Sara policing the kids as they raided the toy bin.

Josh shrugged, louder now because the room had swallowed them. “I burned all my bridges, man. I just lost the job I had last week. Boss found out I was lifting supplies.”

The words landed like dropped dishes.

Ronnie Jr.’s head snapped up. The grin spread slow. “Aww,” he drawled, loud enough to fill the room. “Don’t tell me little Joey lost his big-boy apprenticeship already?”

Joey’s face went hot. “I—”

“Did you forget your ABCs on the job, kid?” Ronnie said, delighted. “Should’ve let me buy you those baby books for Christmas.”

Sara huffed a laugh she maybe didn’t mean, then smothered it, eyes on the kids. Isabel hunched her shoulders; Brian didn’t notice; Tay-Tay climbed on the couch and beeped Ronnie Sr.’s nose. He ignored everyone but the TV.

Linda startled like she’d been caught in a flash photo, then fled back to the kitchen with a too-bright, “Dinner’s almost ready!”

Joey stood in the center of it, still greasy from the driveway, cigarette pack crinkling in his hoodie pocket. He tried to smile, to shrug, to make it a joke first—but his throat wouldn’t cooperate. “I—It just… d-didn’t work out,” he said, barely audible.

Ronnie Jr. clucked his tongue like he was disappointed, eyes glittering. “Yeah. That happens when you can’t keep up.”

Josh had already drifted toward the couch, sinking into a corner like air escaping a tire. “Can’t help you, man,” he mumbled, eyes on the carpet. “Sorry.”

“Hey,” Sara snapped at Brian, who had a Lego in his mouth. “Spit it out.”

The room moved on. TV, kids, pots clanging. The joke hung a second longer, then settled into Joey’s chest like a weight.

He stared at his shoes. Felt like a little kid all over again. Felt small. Stupid.

Linda’s voice floated in, too cheerful. “Wash up! Five minutes!”

Ronnie Jr. slid past Joey on his way to the kitchen, breath warm against his ear. “We’ll talk later, kid. I got something real you can do.” A chuckle. “No reading required.”

He left Joey standing there to the soundtrack of his family not looking at him, the TV shouting answers to questions no one asked. And for a second, Joey wished he was back under the hood with the engine ticking—because at least in there he knew what to touch, what to tighten, where the broken parts were.

Out here, everything looked fine and hurt anyway. It was basically hell.

After dinner the kids spilled onto the back porch, bringing the dogs along to play. Joey followed, to smoke, to get away from the rest of the family, to be alone just for a minute.

The yard he’d mowed earlier lay in neat, uneven stripes; Capone and Scooby chased each other along the fence line while Kush lumbered after the kids, patient as always. Fireflies winked to life over the crabapple tree. The porch light hummed.

Joey leaned on the railing, cigarette dangling from his lips, grease still living under his nails no matter how hard he scrubbed. He was thinking about nothing important when the screen door creaked and Ronnie Jr. stepped out with a beer and a fresh pack, gold chain catching the last of the light.

“Yard looks good,” Ronnie said, like a compliment cost him nothing.

“Th-thanks,” Joey murmured.

They stood a while, pretending to enjoy the quiet. Inside, the TV laughed and pots knocked around; outside, the kids shrieked and the dogs wound through their legs. Ronnie flicked ash into a dead planter.

“You don’t gotta keep chasing garbage jobs,” he said finally, voice easy. “I could use you. Couple deliveries. In town, maybe Youngstown or Cleveland once in a while. You like driving—this is gas money, pocket cash, no headaches.”

Joey watched Isabel spin Tay-Tay by the hands until they toppled into the grass, both of them giggling. “D-deliveries of… w-what?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ronnie said, still friendly. “You drop what I give you, you pick up what they hand you. In and out. I keep you away from idiots. No tests, no forms.” He glanced over. “You trust me or what?”

Joey didn’t. Not really. But Ronnie was the oldest, the one who always landed on his feet, the one people listened to. Joey wanted—stupidly—to believe him.

“J-just deliveries,” he said, more to himself than to Ronnie.

“Just deliveries.” Ronnie clapped his shoulder, already satisfied. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” He stubbed his cigarette and slid back inside, victory in his posture.

Joey watched the yard a second longer. Thought about engines. Thought about getting his own place. Thought about how his life always felt like a car stuck in second—revving, loud, going nowhere.

The screen squeaked again.

Josh drifted out, jittery as a loose wire, eyes too bright. He scratched his wrist, glanced at Joey’s smoke. “You got another?”

“Y-yeah.” Joey passed a cigarette and lit it for him. Josh leaned in, cupping the flame, drawing deep like he hadn’t breathed all day.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the kids chase Kush around the crabapple tree. Josh exhaled and laughed once, humorless. “So—that boss I mentioned? He’s probably pressing charges.”

“F-for those s-supplies?”

“Yeah.” Josh scratched his jaw. “Couple boxes got light. Camera saw me. Whatever.” He took another drag off his cigarette. “Court date’s coming. Might do a little time. We’ll see.”

Joey’s chest tightened. Josh’s senior year rose up like a bruise. Joey had been a freshman then, small and hopeful, watching from the bleachers while two cops waited by the locker room door after Josh’s game. Later, there were whispers about pills in a gym bag, cash folded in a sock, texts on a phone that didn’t look good. “Intent to distribute.” A plea. A year upstate. After that it was shorter stints—probation violations, dumb charges—and the jobs came and went like bad weather. Every time Joey thought Josh was back, something slid out from under him. The pills had their hooks in deep.

“I’m s-sorry,” Joey said.

Josh shrugged like the sky was gray. “It’s whatever.”

They smoked in the hum of the porch light. Inside, Linda called for the kids to come in; Ronnie Sr.’s TV rattled the window glass.

“Hey,” Josh said after a beat, side-eyeing Joey. “I’m sorry about the shop, man. I know you wanted that to work out.”

Joey tried for a joke and felt it fall flat. “G-got fifty bucks out of it at least.”

Josh’s head tilted. A slow, boyish grin. “Ohhhh. You think you could float me twenty? Just till Friday. I swear.”

Why’d I say anything? Joey thought. He could already feel the money evaporating. But that was Josh. He was always like this.

“Y-yeah,” he said. “I just… gotta b-break it.”

“Corner store,” Josh said, already moving. “Dad parked you in. We’ll take my ride.”

They cut through the living room; Ronnie Jr. was holding court on the couch, Sara was prying another Lego from Brian’s mouth, Linda was scrubbing a pot with her back turned, and Ronnie Sr. didn’t look away from the TV. No one asked where they were going.

Out in the street, Josh’s borrowed coupe coughed to life, rattling like it might fall apart at every turn. Joey buckled in slowly, eyeing the dashboard, then the empty back seat, then Josh.

“Whose car is this?” he asked, suspicious.

Josh grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “My new girlfriend’s.”

Joey blinked. “O-oh.”

Of course it was. Josh always had a new girlfriend. They came and went like seasonal allergies—some louder than others, all with their own set of problems.

Josh laughed nervously, adjusting the rearview. “Yeaah, uh… we just moved in together. Found out she’s pregnant a couple weeks ago, so…” He shrugged. “Tryin’ to make it work.”

Joey’s head snapped toward him so fast it popped his neck. “W-what?”

Josh winced. “Keep your voice down, man. Nobody knows yet. I’m still… figuring it out.”

Joey stared, bug-eyed, as they hit a pothole that made the whole car jolt.

“She’s cool, though,” Josh went on casually. “Letting me stay, lending the car. She’s got some money saved. Helps a lot.”

Jesus, Joey thought, looking back out the window. He’s crashing at her place, using her car, now there’s a baby coming?

But Josh said it like he’d won something. Like he’d landed on his feet.

They didn’t say much the rest of the ride. Two blocks stretched long under a pinking sky, clouds edged with dusk. The old Wally’s Express sign flickered half-dead over the lot.

Inside, the fluorescents buzzed like hornets. The air smelled like floor cleaner and fryer grease. Brittany was on shift—lip ring, winged liner, snap of gum against teeth.

“Back again?” she teased, tossing her bangs out of her eyes.

Joey tried not to stutter. “P-pack of K-Kools. A-and, uh…” He pointed at a scratch-off. “Th-that one.”

The register clacked, and Joey passed over Chuck’s crumpled fifty. As Brittany counted out the change, he scratched the ticket with his thumbnail, watching his luck sputter out in cartoon stars and blank boxes.

Josh leaned against the rack of beef jerky like nothing in his life was urgent. But Joey’s fingers still buzzed from the revelation—baby on the way, living in a stranger’s apartment, driving a borrowed car like it was his own.

As they stepped back into the night air, Joey glanced sideways. “S-she know what she’s in for?”

Josh smirked, lit another smoke. “Doubt it.”

And Joey thought, not for the first time, God help that girl. Sighing, he peeled off a twenty from his handful of change and held it out. Josh took it like it was air.

“I’ll hit you Friday,” Josh said, sliding back into the driver’s seat.

“Mm,” Joey said. He knew Friday was a moving target, a shape that changed when you got close. He climbed in anyway.

They drove home with the windows down, smoke curling out into the soft dark. Joey counted the leftover bills in his pocket with his thumb and thought about tomorrow—about deliveries, about trust he hadn’t earned, about how his life kept offering him the same exits that just circled back to the house he started from.

He told himself it would be fine.

He told himself a lot of things.