The morning was gray the way mornings in Ohio get in March—no sun, no rain, just a flat light that made everything look the same. Bob Kowalski stood in front of the bathroom mirror and fastened a belt he had worn for fifteen years. The buckle was faded. The leather split at the edge. He tried three times before it clicked. The belt was tighter than it used to be. He had lost weight.

Mike was in the kitchen eating cereal. He was twenty-two, going to community college on and off, and he watched his father fasten the belt the way you watch someone do something you once did and never wanted to.

"Dad, a friend of mine works at Dillard's. I can get you a new one."

Bob said no.

"It's split."

"It still works."

Mike stopped talking. He had learned that arguing was useless.

Bob went to a gas station on Route 6 to look for work. He wore his only suit. He wore the belt. The interviewer was a man named Henderson. He looked at the resume, nodded, looked at the belt, looked at the shoes.

"We'll be in touch," he said.

Three days later, the call came. The job was gone. Henderson said they needed a more professional image. Bob hung up the phone and stood in the kitchen for a long time.

He applied for a warehouse job. He needed work. He needed money. He needed a new belt. He still said no to Mike.

"It's not because I'm frugal," he told Linda, his ex-wife, who worked at a supermarket.

"Then why?"

"Because a new one means I need to be taken care of."

Linda didn't answer. She had seen Bob at his worst and his best and everything in between. She knew that for Bob, the belt was not about money. It was about something he could not name.

The warehouse job paid half of what he used to make. No health insurance. He started on a Monday. In the locker room, he fastened the old belt. A young worker watched him, said nothing. Bob recognized the look in his eyes. Pity. He hated it.

Three months passed. Boxes, lifting, carrying. His back ached. The belt dug in tighter. He was thinner still.

Mike visited on a Saturday. He brought a new belt from Dillard's. Bob looked at it for a long time. The leather was soft. The buckle was bright.

"Put it down," Bob said. "No need to wear it."

Mike put it on the table and left.

Late at night, Bob opened the new belt. He fastened it to himself. He looked in the mirror. He unbuckled it. He put it back on the table.

He kept working at the warehouse. The old belt stayed on him. The leather split a little more.

Linda visited on weekends. She brought food. She did some cleaning. They did not talk about work. They did not talk about money. They did not talk about the belt.

One Saturday afternoon, Bob went to the supermarket. He bought cans and bread. At the checkout, he put his money on the counter. Then he put the old belt on the counter too—because his hands were shaking, and he needed to put some weight on the counter for a rest.

The cashier was a young girl. She looked at the old belt. She looked at Bob's hands. She said nothing. She scanned the items. She handed him the bag.

Bob picked up the bag. He fastened the old belt. He walked out.

The sunlight was bright. Bob walked home. The belt was tight around his waist. He walked slowly. But he walked.