Frank Beres could not afford to think about the sun. He could not afford to think about much of anything except the next shift at the factory, the next rent payment, the next bottle of whiskey to take the edge off the ache in his knees.
Detroit, 2019. The factory had closed six months ago, along with three others in the same industrial park. Frank had worked there for twenty-two years, operating a machine that stamped metal parts for cars that nobody was buying anymore. When the layoff notice came, his supervisor—a young man named Derek who had been at the company for six months—told him that the company had decided to move...
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