The bar was called The Last Stop.
Mike Kowalski sat at the counter and drank a beer that cost four dollars and tasted like it had been made from water and regret. He was thirty-four and had been unemployed for eleven months. His last job had been driving a delivery truck for a company that went bankrupt when the auto industry collapsed. He had kept driving for a while after that, picking up odd jobs—loading docks, construction...
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