Frank Kovac punched the time card and watched the green numbers flicker: 2300.
Night shift. Warehouse three. The same pay as the factory, minus twenty-two years of seniority, minus the union protections, minus the dignity of having done the same job for longer than most of the young guys had been alive. He walked onto the floor and the smell hit him—cardboard dust and diesel and the faint metallic tang of the packing machines that had replaced the assembly line. He had...
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