The radiator in the garage hissed. It had hissed for as long as Mike O'Brien had been working there, which was three years, which felt like thirty, which felt like nothing at all depending on how you counted.

Sal was behind the counter, eating a sandwich and watching a game on the television mounted in the corner. The television was old and the picture was bad and Sal was watching it anyway, because watching something was better than not watching anything.

"Hey, Mike," Sal said without looking at him. "You hear about the guy on 42nd Street? The one who runs the bodega?"

"No," Mike said. He was under a '57 Chevy, lying on his back, listening to the engine tick as it cooled.

"They say he's moving to Jersey. Or Florida. Or somewhere. He sold the store for forty grand."

"Forty grand," Mike repeated. It was a number. Numbers were things you dealt with. You added them, subtracted them, wondered about them, moved on.

"Forty grand, Mike. Forty. Grand."

"Must be nice," Mike said. He rolled out from under the car and sat up. His back cracked. He was twenty-eight and his back cracked.

Danny walked in. He was wearing a suit. Not a nice suit—a suit, but not a nice one. It was grey and it fit wrong at the shoulders and it smelled like a closet. But it was a suit, and suits meant something in this neighborhood. Suits meant office work. Suits meant Danny was trying.

"Hey," Danny said. He sat down on the stool next to Sal and took the sandwich Sal offered him.

"Hey," Mike said. He didn't ask where Danny had been. He knew. Danny had been to another interview. Another rejection. Another door closing in his face.

"Long morning?" Sal asked.

"Long," Danny said. He took a bite of the sandwich. He chewed slowly. He swallowed. "They liked my resume. They didn't like my face."

Sal laughed. It was a loud laugh, the kind of laugh that filled a room whether anyone else wanted to hear it or not. "Your face is fine, Danny. Your face is great. Your face is—"

"Sal," Mike said.

"Right. Sorry." Sal went back to his sandwich.

Danny ate in silence. He always ate in silence. He was the quiet one. Mike was the silent one. Together they were quiet and silent, which was the kind of quiet that filled a garage like radiation.

The bell above the door rang. Mike looked up. It was Mr. Cohen. He was sixty years old, or he had been when Mike last saw him, which was three years ago, which was a lifetime ago, which was yesterday. Mr. Cohen owned a small jewelry store on East Houston. He had helped the O'Brien family when Pat died. He had given Danny a reference. He had given Mike a job that lasted six months and then ended when the store got robbed.

"Mike," Mr. Cohen said. "Danny."

"Mr. Cohen," Mike said. He stood up.

"Sit down, Mike. I'm not here for work." He looked at Danny. "Are you still looking?"

Danny nodded. "Yeah."

"I might have something. A position at a shipping company. They need someone to handle inventory. It's not glamorous, but it's steady."

Danny's eyes lit up. It was a small light, barely visible, but it was there. "Really?"

"Really. I'll call them. Tell them you're my nephew."

"You don't have a nephew named Danny," Mike said.

Mr. Cohen smiled. It was a kind smile, the kind of smile that had gotten him through forty years of business in a neighborhood that didn't care about kind. "Everyone has a nephew named Danny."

Danny stood up. He shook Mr. Cohen's hand. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Start Monday," Mr. Cohen said. He turned to leave. Then he paused. "Mike? You should come too. They need two people."

Mike looked at Danny. Danny was looking at him with an expression that Mike hadn't seen in a long time. It wasn't hope. Hope was too strong a word. It was something smaller. Something quieter. Something that didn't announce itself but existed anyway, like a crack in a wall where a weed grows.

"Maybe," Mike said.

Mr. Cohen nodded. He left. The bell rang. The radiator hissed.

Danny sat back down. He picked up the rest of Sal's sandwich and ate it.

"Monday," he said.

"Monday," Mike agreed.

Sal went back to his television. The game was in the fourth quarter. The score was close. Sal was yelling at the television, which was the kind of yelling that meant he cared more about a game he wasn't playing than anything else in his life.

Mike went back under the car. He picked up his wrench. He tightened a bolt. He loosened a bolt. He tightened it again.

Outside, the street was loud. A siren wailed. A car horn blared. Someone was arguing in a language Mike didn't understand. Inside the garage, the radiator hissed and the television crackled and Danny sat on a stool eating a sandwich and thinking about Monday.

Monday. A day that hadn't happened yet. A day that might happen differently than all the other days. A day that might be the same as all the other days.

Mike tightened the bolt. He loosened it. He tightened it again.

The radiator hissed.