Frank Delgado was forty-five years old and living in a two-bedroom apartment in East Detroit that smelled permanently of fried grease and regret.
He used to work at a medical lab until they moved it to Indiana, which was another way of saying they replaced him with someone who was younger and cheaper. After that he did odd jobs—delivering pizza, night shifts at a gas station on Eight Mile, helping people move furniture they could not afford to replace. His ex-wife Martha did not speak to him anymore. It had been two years since she took...
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