Ethan had lived there since selling the family house after Sarah died.
The children were already gone.
The rooms had been too large.
Every hallway contained her absence.
The apartment was easier.
One bedroom.
Small kitchen.
Balcony facing an alley where a maple tree turned red every October.
He placed the Hail Dynamics box on the dining table.
Then opened his laptop.
Savings.
Mortgage did not exist anymore.
That helped.
Rent.
Insurance.
Utilities.
Car.
Food.
He had enough for several months.
Not forever.
He was thirty-eight.
Young enough to work.
Old enough for hiring managers to ask why a man with fifteen years at one company had suddenly been eliminated.
He searched industrial maintenance positions.
Three postings.
One required relocation.
One paid twenty-five percent less.
One wanted an engineering degree Ethan did not have.
He had expertise.
Certifications.
Experience.
No bachelor’s degree.
For fifteen years, Hail Dynamics had cared more about whether he could keep machinery running.
The outside world might care differently.
At eight, Nora called.
“Dad.”
Ethan had not told her.
Someone else had.
Probably Caleb.
“How do you know?”
“Uncle Daniel.”
Ethan closed his eyes.
“Daniel isn’t your uncle.”
“He has been at Thanksgiving.”
“Once.”
“Twice.”
“Nora.”
“Did you get fired?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God.”
“I’m fine.”
“Stop.”
Ethan smiled faintly.
“You sound like your mother.”
“Good.”
She paused.
“Are you really fine?”
Ethan looked toward the cardboard box.
“No.”
That was harder to say than he expected.
Nora’s voice softened.
“Okay.”
“But I will be.”
“You can come here.”
“No.”
“Dad.”
“You live in a one-bedroom apartment with a teacher’s salary.”
“We have a couch.”
“I also have a couch.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Genetic.”
She laughed despite herself.
Caleb called twenty minutes later with an entirely different strategy.
“Lawyer.”
“No.”
“Dad.”
“I don’t know that anything illegal happened.”
“Fifteen years and they fired you in three minutes.”
“That can be legal.”
“That shouldn’t be.”
“Different question.”
Caleb sighed.
“At least talk to someone.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m considering lying.”
That made his son laugh.
After the calls, Ethan reheated soup.
He ate at the table beside the box from work.
At ten thirty, he took out Sarah’s photograph.
The one from the coast.
Wind in her hair.
Nora rolling her eyes at something.
Caleb missing one shoe.
“You would be furious,” Ethan said.
Silence.
“You’d call Daniel.”
He smiled.
“You’d probably call HR.”
More silence.
Then:
“It hurt.”
The words came quietly.
“I know I’m not supposed to care about a company.”
“But I did.”
He leaned back.
“Fifteen years.”
Sarah’s photograph offered no advice.
Ethan did what he had done during her illness.
He allowed himself to feel exactly as bad as he felt.
No performance.