Sarah opens a can of tuna fish, strains the water off in the sink by compressing the can’s top. Eighty-nine cents at Price Saver. She picks at the salty tuna with a plastic fork, glances around her efficiency apartment. She thinks of those spaces in IKEA, the little houses, with all the marks of convenient living. Packed is a word for it. Coffin. Kitchen and living room together. Bathroom so small she can’t turn around. Bedroom big enough for a twin, maybe a full sized, but she doesn’t like cramping the space. She picks at the tuna. It is all smashed into the little can, dead flesh pressed up against itself. The single-serve coffee pot gurgles and hisses, steam rising from it and fogging the narrow kitchen window, one that wouldn’t be a good escape in a fire. She pours herself a cup of coffee.

An inexplicably large window takes up most of the living room’s front wall. The cracked, aged caulking around the lower ledge lets winter in. The radiator clanks, squalls like an old man with deep bone pain, but it can’t vanquish the draft. $1200 a month. Sarah sits on her folded futon, the steaming coffee mug warm in her hand. On the little table next to her leans a growing stack of unopened mail.

She pulls her bare feet up underneath herself. God, how she misses summer. Three hours until work. Her six-hour shift at Old Navy, folding various sizes of cheap children’s pants and shirts. $10 for a pair of pants. $7 for a shirt. She sees the same customers over and over, buying the on-sale tee shirts for their children. Coming back a few months later for more because the others wore out, had holes, rips, whatever. What do they expect for ten bucks? Sarah spends the day hanging things back where they belonged. Emptying the dressing rooms. She does these things because they pay her just enough to call it a job. They pay her to smile and act as if she cares. Customer service.

She thinks about calling Jen, seeing if they could go out tonight. Maybe to Buster’s for beers or that new martini bar Jen has been talking about. Maybe not, though. She glances over at the bills. She couldn’t afford a night out anyway. In the afternoon, she is meeting her father for a late lunch to ask him for more money.

She gets up, walks to the window, braves the shots of cold air, stares out into the still morning. Blackened snow stands piled on the sidewalk one story below. A haze of calm found in still water or monasteries hangs over the street even if the gas station a block away has been robbed three times in the past two months; even if the trees along the street sag under smog. She could bring her father here for a month, away from his woods and mountains and streams. Here where she can’t see beyond the two hundred feet to the other side of Hampton Avenue; where there are apartment buildings stained with black streaks of pollution and homeless people with no teeth covered in their own shit. He’d give her all the money she’d need then.

At the start of her shift, she works with Andy folding a new style shirt. They unbox, break the boxes down, unpack the garments, get the folding boards and carts. The store is not open yet. Half the florescent lights buzz, and she and Andy work in the near dark. Another hour before the gate goes up. Mindy, the shift manager, comes around and reminds everyone to smile, as if that’s the reason people come to Old Navy. Smiling twenty-somethings.

“People who fake smile at work drink more,” Andy says after Mindy walks away.

“That can’t be the only reason they drink,” Sarah says. She’s distracted and stops unpacking.

“Who knows,” Andy says. “It’s just what I read someplace.”

Andy has a wide smile, a little too wide, and his teeth are huge, and he has freckles, something Sarah finds a little annoying. He talks about his girlfriend. Someone named Marissa. Andy and Marissa. That doesn’t ring. Sarah tells him this.

“What does that mean?” he asks. He takes one of the folding boards and a shirt, starts folding. He’s a god at it. Fast, efficient. He does two shirts to Sarah’s one.

“Just means it may not work out.”

“Why’s that?”

“It just doesn’t sound right. I don’t know.”

“Are you awake? Did you not get your coffee this morning?”

Sarah smiles. Sometimes, she thinks she likes Andy, maybe. But just maybe. Maybe it’s just because he’s the only one here she can talk to about anything besides work stuff. Maybe because he shows up every morning with a Starbucks, $5 coffee, cradled in his hands to ward off the incessant chill that seeps through the back entrance.

She folds another shirt, places it on the growing pile. Mindy comes by again, looks over the work, nods at them, smiles her instant smile, the one she keeps in her back pocket, and walks away. She’s a Keurig of smiles, but she’s not unbearable, Mindy. Still, she has all the personality of a folding board. The gate clatters up. The day begins, and Sarah falls into her routine, smiling, helping, taking money, running credit cards. Every time a soccer mom swipes, Sarah wonders how far it goes outside the means.

There are five people in the little diner where she meets her father. He likes these off-the- map holes-in-the-wall that serve chicken fried steaks and macro brew beers with décor of license plates from all 50 states nailed to the walls or concert posters from the 70s used as wall paper or framed pictures of men holding fish by the mouth. This place is called Danny’s Dime Diner; it’s on the city’s south side, buried in strip mall between a nail salon and a flower shop. Everything on the menu is $10 or less. Sarah scans, searching for something with greens, a salad, a sandwich, something. She finds the salads. Fried chicken salad. Of course.

One of the customers leaves, and a busboy comes out carrying a gray tub. He’s young, slick, dark-skinned. His hair is pushed back off his slightly sloped forehead. He gathers the dishes effortlessly, the way Andy folds shirts, smooth, quick, his hands like rockets. When the door opens, a hunk of a man comes in. Sarah’s father. He stands behind the busboy waiting for him to move. Even though she can only see him in silhouette framed in the glass door, she can tell he’s annoyed. The busboy notices him.

“Lo siento,” he says. He takes his tub and moves out of the way. 

Her father sits down across from her. His gut hugs the table, and he pushes the table toward her, hemming her in.

“Hi, Daddy,” she says from behind the menu.

“Sugar,” he says. “This is good place. A guy I know came down here two months ago. Worked a job over off Hamilton. Ate here every day. Said to try the fish sandwich.” He looks at the menu. “Here it is.”

“How are you?” Sarah asks.

“Can’t complain. Pam and I are heading down to Taum Sauk in May. Going to float the Black. Suzy and John are going.” He waves the waitress over. “I’ll have the fish sandwich and a Michelob.”

“I’ll just have the chicken salad. And a water,” Sarah says.

“One fish. One fried chicken salad. Got it.” The waitress moves away from them, her skirt swishing against her legs. Sarah watches her. She pauses by the swinging kitchen door. “Raul,” she calls, “help Danny with the grill, would you?”

They sit for a while and don’t say anything. A ray of sunshine breaks through and lights the front booths by the window. The waitress comes back with their drinks, puts them down with a heavy thunk on the table.

“What’s your soup today,” Sarah asks.

“Clam chowder.”

“Could I get a cup of that, too?”

The waitress huffs a little. “Sure,” she says. And she’s gone again.

They talk about the weather. How the winter has been too long; how they hope it will break soon. He mentions the trip to Taum Sauk again. Sarah fiddles with her sweatshirt’s cuffs. They bunch around her wrists.

“You know what I was thinking about the other day,” her father asks.

“Yeah?”

“Remember when we used to go camping, and we’d stay up all night. Those were good times, weren’t they?” He emphasizes we.

“You stayed up all night, Daddy.”

“Yeah, well, those were good times.” He looks over at her. “Why do you dress like that?”

“Like what?”

“Frumpy.” He sips the Michelob.

“Look, dad, I need to ask you something.” Sarah picks at her sweater. It feels tighter on her arms and shoulders.

“What’s it?”

“I need money.”

The waitress appears with their food.

“You got a job or what?” her father asks.

“Yes. I do.”

“So, what do you need money for?”

“They don’t pay much,” she says.

“Get a better job.” He lifts the fish sandwich and takes a bite. Mayonnaise squirts out the side, drops on his plate.

“I work 30 hours a week. That’s all they’ll give me.” She moves some of the fried chicken around in her salad. “It’s not easy to find a better job.”

He picks up the fish sandwich and takes a bite. Some lettuce hangs from his lips as he leans over the plate, his gut surges against the table and pushes it further into her.

He swallows. Says, “You need to grow up.” He takes the Michelob, drinks half of it in one long chug.

No one has come into the diner. It’s cramped; the round tables nearly on top of one another. The booth is a full-sized bed in a twin-sized bedroom. From the back, she can hear someone speaking Spanish. She took four years in high school. She can’t understand anything.

Her father stares at her, the way he does, with heavy eyelids. He always looks tired and disappointed in everything. She can smell grease and ranch dressing. Somehow this is pleasing, a smell she remembers from childhood. Her father leans forward.

“All right,” he heaves. “I’ll give you the money. How much?”

“Two thousand?” she asks. The sweater feels tighter still, hot around her neck. She can feel the line of sweat dribbling down her spine.

“Tengo una calienta cita esta noche,” the busboy in the kitchen says. Sarah can hear the uptick in his voice. It rises a little on “caliente.” She looks at her father’s flat face, at his bushy eyebrows. His voice went up when he said, “Taum Sauk,” but not “Sugar.”

“Ok,” her father says. His eyebrows pulse with the routine twitch in his forehead. “This is between us.”

“I know.”

“I’ll send you a check.”

“Ok.”

“Pam can’t find out. That’ll be hell for me.”

“Right,” she says. “Hell for you.”

He stands up, pulls out his wallet, and drops fifty dollars on the table, more than enough for the bill.

“You know,” he says, “you should call sometime when you don’t need something. That’d be a nice stretch for you.”

His plate is clean. Hers is still full of fried chicken salad, which is more fried chicken than salad. She puts the fork down, goes to the counter with the fifty-dollar bill, hands it to the waitress.

“Don’t you hate that,” the waitress says as she makes change.

“What?”

“When they patronize you like that. Like you, we, can’t take care of ourselves? I mean look at us,” she shakes her head a little. “We’re the future, ain’t we?”

Sarah pauses for a moment. She shakes her head yes. Her curls bounce like they always have since she was a little. She works and works her hair with a flat iron, trying to make it straight, trying to look older, more sophisticated. But the curls always roll back. She always looks ten-years old in the mirror.

“Don’t worry,” the waitress says handing her the change. “He’ll have to move in with you someday. That’s how it’s going now, ya know.” She shoves the register drawer shut. It’s louder than Sarah expects. “Raul, back there, he takes care of his whole family. Mom, dad, grandma, too. And he’s got a hot date tonight,” she laughs a little. “I’ll be taking care of my parents someday because they blew their wads on stupid materialistic shit. Maybe that’ll be you, too.”

“Yeah,” Sarah says. “Maybe.”

“Fucking Boomers,” the waitress says and covers her mouth. “Sorry.”

“It’s ok,” Sarah says.

The sun is out; warmer than earlier. A man walks by her using a cane. His fluffy grey hair bulges from under a train conductor’s hat. Sarah falls in behind him, walking in shorter steps. The sidewalk is a little crowded with a few other people and stuff the shops have put out. Flower stands. A spinning greeting card rack. A collection of clearance clothing. A sign announcing a furniture sale. “EVERYTHING MUST GO!” the sign exclaims. She can’t find a good way around the old man as they make their way toward the bus stop. With each step, she can hear him let out a little wheeze of pain.

For the next four days, Sarah watches her mail. She rifles through bills, remits, coupon booklets, auto insurance offers for the car she doesn’t own. The check arrives on the fourth day. Two thousand dollars, enough to pay her rent for another month. Maybe two if she stretches and doesn’t go out, eats Ramen, saves as much as she can from her check. She knows the money will fester in her bank account. Call to her. She’ll spend it on something dumb; she’ll blow her wad. She thinks about Andy with his Starbucks and his freckles. She wants to smack him with a folding board.

Sarah holds the check. The edges slightly crimped, as if her father had pinched it between his fingers before finally deciding to slide it in the envelope. She puts it on the little bar-style table in the corner.

In her bed, she dreams of having a cat and shiny new place with windows that are the right size and the cat curled up on a made bed. In her dream, her parents are living in the next room, and they are smiling together, and everywhere is the smell of potatoes and bacon and ranch dressing. She jolts awake to thunder and rain swiping across the window, slapping the apartment complex. Water drains in from the cracked window seal. It pools on the floor next to her bed. She gathers her bedding, but it is all already wet.

The next day, before heading into work, she deposits the check. Against her better judgment, she uses the teller instead of the machine, which has a long line of older people. The teller’s name tag reads Zachary, and he is short, shorter than Sarah, which is saying something. Sarah wonders if he is a little person, and he takes the check, looks it over, looks up at her, and gives her a half smile. He stamps the back and runs the check through a machine that Sarah has no idea what it does and tells her to have a nice day. Thanks for coming in. The half-smile makes her flinch a little. The little devil and his judgements. She decides she should carry a folding board for all such occasions.

At Old Navy, she folds, and folds, and helps, and smiles, and smiles, and hangs, and folds, and helps. Her phone she hasn’t yet paid for this month goes off three times. She forgets to check it, but on the bus home, she sees the texts from her father. Pam knows. Just a heads up. Call sometime. 

Sarah feels winter steel in her gut as if a sliver of ice lanced her with precision past her vital organs to leave a frozen sting in her bones. She departs the bus, waits, gets a different one, goes back to the bank. They close at six. She’s there at five forty-nine. Inside, she waits for the personal banker. Why are they always so busy? Even when no one is here? The woman comes out. Her name tag reads Stacy. Stacy tells her the check has been cancelled. There’s an overdraft charge on her account of $25. Sarah asks if there is anything she can do, and Stacy says no.

Under a streetlamp, she waits for the bus that is ten minutes behind schedule. It starts to rain again, and it is cold. The lamps turn a shade of yellow found in dijon mustards. She is sure the pool of water by her bed will be expansive by the time she gets home. Across the street, a liquor store’s stout lights stand against the yellowed street and the spitting rain. It has bars across the windows. Her tennis shoes slosh in puddles as she crosses the street, and she stands at the liquor store door. The rain intensifies. She wants to grab at something. Go for something. Not wait for it; not be trapped in it; not beg for it. She rolls it over in her head. Smoke a joint. Take some pills. Quit her job. Buy a car. Spray graffiti on the outside of her apartment building. For a moment, she thinks she sees Andy in the door’s faded reflection, standing just behind her with his cup of coffee. The lights from the liquor store grow brighter as the rain picks up. It pelts her sweatshirt and makes popping sounds in her ears. Maybe she will. Maybe. Just maybe. Probably not. 

She goes in where the fluorescents’ warm sizzle greets her with its hum. The man behind the counter has a beard. He’s young, too. Working. Saving. Buying Starbucks. He has a cup next to him with the green emblem.

As she turns down the aisle lined with vodka and gin bottles, he says, “Can I help you?” with an accent she can’t place. She picks up a bottle of Smirnoff, slides it in her sweatshirt, huddles against it as if it is a freezing, lost kitten.

“Miss?” the young man says.

Sarah looks up. He’s leaning over the counter on his tip toes, craning his neck to see down the aisle. She’s sure there are cameras. Her hood is up, covering her hair, her face.

“I just need to call my friend,” she says. “It’s raining.”

He’s coming out from behind the counter, and she moves down the aisle, away from him, toward the second door. She pushes on it. It resists, but then gives way and lets her out to the street where she runs, the water flying around her legs. Her khakis are soaked around the hems.

“Hey!” he shouts, and she runs harder. The vodka tight in her grasp. The bus isn’t there, so she runs around the corner, presses up against the side of an office building. There’s no one behind her. No one following her. The bottle is cold, and then the bus arrives. She gets on. Headed for home. To a wet floor in a tiny, overpriced apartment with no cat. She falls into a seat in a pile of dampness. Maybe, she thinks. Her breathing is heavy from running and the cold air. She pulls the bottle out of her sweatshirt. The lights flicker a bit as the bus hits a pothole and sways under her. She opens the vodka and drinks.

Ryan Stone is the author of the short story collection Best Road Yet (Press 53). His stories have appeared in numerous journals. He directs the creative writing program at Paradise Valley Community College in Phoenix, AZ.