Ethan Walker had been fired for exactly twenty-three seconds when the ambulance doors closed.
He knew because he counted.
Counting gave his mind something to do besides understand what had just happened.
Twenty-one.
Twenty-two.
Twenty-three.
The rear doors slammed, sealing Ray Callahan inside with two paramedics and enough flashing equipment to turn the gray service bay red and white.
The ambulance rolled backward.
Then toward the street.
Ethan remained on his knees on the concrete.
His hands were shaking.
He stared at them.
Grease beneath the nails.
A small cut across one knuckle.
The palms still felt strangely warm.
He could hear Ray’s labored breathing in his memory even though the man was already gone.
Behind Ethan, Gary Dalton said:
“You heard me.”
Ethan did not turn.
Gary’s shoes crossed the concrete.
“Get your stuff.”
The boy slowly looked over his shoulder.
Gary stood five feet away with one hand planted on his hip and the other pointing toward the employee lockers.
Fifty-three years old.
Thinning brown hair.
Hard face.
Navy mechanic shirt stretched across a stomach that had grown heavier during twenty years behind a service counter.
Gary did not look frightened anymore.
During the emergency he had.
Ethan had seen it.
For perhaps five seconds after Ray collapsed beside the waiting-room door, Gary had frozen like everyone else.
Then Ethan moved.
Now the fear had transformed into anger.
That was easier for Gary.
Anger put him back in charge.
Ethan swallowed.
“You fired me?”
“I told you three times to get back to the counter.”
“He wasn't breathing right.”
“I don't care.”
The words came too quickly.
Gary heard himself.
So did the three customers still standing near the reception desk.
A woman in a Kansas City Chiefs sweatshirt stared at him.
An older man beside the coffee machine slowly lowered his paper cup.
Gary corrected:
“I mean I care that a customer had a medical problem.”
“But you don't abandon your position.”
Ethan looked toward the open garage entrance.
The ambulance had disappeared.
“Somebody had to stay with him.”
“Paramedics were coming.”
“They weren't here yet.”
“You called them.”
“Yes.”
“That was enough.”
Ethan stared.
“No.”
Gary’s face hardened.
“Excuse me?”
“It wasn't enough.”
Ethan stood slowly.
His knees hurt from the concrete.
“He was on the floor.”
“He couldn't answer me.”
“He was barely moving.”
“So I stayed.”
Gary stepped closer.
“And I told you to stop.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“Careful.”
“What?”
“You think because there was an emergency you get to decide what your job is?”
Ethan looked at him.
“For those minutes?”
“Yes.”
Gary laughed once.
“No.”
“I decide what your job is.”
The woman near the counter finally spoke.
“He may have saved that man’s life.”
Gary turned.
“Ma’am, respectfully, this is an employee matter.”
She looked at Ethan.
Then Gary.
“Seems like it became everybody’s matter when you started yelling at him while he was helping someone on the floor.”
Gary’s face reddened.
“Please stay out of it.”
The older customer put down his cup.
“She’s right.”
Gary pointed toward the waiting room.
“You both have vehicles being serviced.”
“We're handling them.”
Ethan almost laughed.
The absurdity of that sentence.
A man had just been taken away in an ambulance.
Gary was worried about tire rotations.
The woman looked disgusted.
Gary turned back to Ethan.
“Locker.”
“Now.”
Ethan’s chest tightened.
That locker contained almost nothing.
A second green work shirt.
Toothbrush.
Deodorant.
Half a package of crackers.
A paperback somebody had left at the bus stop.
And a clean pair of socks he had been saving for Monday.
That was his workplace life.
Everything else he owned fit inside a gray backpack hidden behind St. Matthew’s church annex three blocks away.
He had worked at Redline Tire & Auto for twenty-six days.
Twenty-six days.
Long enough to begin imagining a different year.
Not a different life.
Ethan had stopped imagining entire lives.
That was too dangerous.
He imagined weeks.
A week with enough food.
A week with dry socks.
A week where no shelter employee told him the beds were full.
A week where the manager handed him a schedule instead of asking how old he really was.
Twenty-six days at Redline had become four almost-normal weeks.
The job paid eleven dollars and seventy-five cents an hour.
Not much.
Everything.
Gary had hired him because one of the regular mechanics quit without notice.
Ethan had been sweeping the sidewalk outside the laundromat next door for five dollars when Gary came outside and asked:
“You know anything about tires?”
Ethan had lied.
“Some.”
He knew almost nothing.
Gary looked him over.
Thin.
Dirty hoodie.
Hands scarred from odd jobs.
“How old?”
“Seventeen.”
“You got ID?”
“Yes.”
That part was true.
“Address?”
Ethan hesitated.
Gary noticed.
“You homeless?”
Ethan stared.
Then nodded.
Gary sighed.
The sigh had hurt more than an insult.
“Can you show up at seven?”
“Yes.”
“Every day?”
“Yes.”
“You steal from me, you're gone.”
“I won't.”
“You show up drunk, you're gone.”
“I don't drink.”
“You disappear, you're gone.”
“I won't.”
Gary handed him an old navy shirt at first.
Too large.
Two days later, a mechanic named Luis gave Ethan a forest-green uniform shirt that fit better.
Ethan kept wearing it.
Gary complained that employees were supposed to match.
Luis said the official shirts were out of stock.
Gary tolerated it.
The green shirt became Ethan’s.
For the first time in months, he owned clothing associated with somewhere he was expected to return.
That mattered.
On his first payday, Ethan stared at the paper check for almost a minute.
Gary thought he did not understand it.
“You take it to the bank listed there.”
“I know.”
“You got an account?”
“No.”
“Then they'll probably charge a fee.”
“I know.”
Gary looked at him.
“You say that a lot.”
Ethan folded the check carefully.
“I don't like people thinking I’m stupid.”
Gary shrugged.
“Then don't do stupid things.”
Now, twenty-six days later, Ethan walked toward the locker knowing Gary believed he had finally done one.
He opened it.
Took the second green shirt.
Crackers.
Socks.
Toothbrush.
Book.
Everything went into a plastic grocery sack.
Luis Ramirez came in from the alignment bay.
He was forty-one, Mexican American, compact, permanently grease-stained, and usually impossible to surprise.
He looked from Ethan to Gary.
“What happened?”
Gary answered:
“He’s done.”
Luis stared.
“For what?”
“Abandoning his station.”
Luis looked toward the street.
“The guy who collapsed?”
“Yes.”
“He was helping him.”
“He ignored instructions.”
Luis’s expression changed.
“Gary.”
“Don't.”
“You can't be serious.”
“I am.”
Luis looked at Ethan.
“You okay?”
Ethan nodded automatically.
No.
Luis knew.
Gary said:
“Don't make this bigger.”
Luis turned.
“Bigger?”
“A customer collapsed and the kid stayed with him.”
“You tried to pull him away.”
“I tried to keep the shop running.”
Luis stared in disbelief.
“Shop was still here.”
Gary stepped forward.
“You want to discuss your employment too?”
Silence.
That worked.
Luis had a wife.
Two children.
Mortgage.
Dental bill.
He looked away.
Ethan understood.
That hurt less than if Luis had pretended otherwise.
“I’m good.”
Ethan said quietly.
Luis turned.
“Kid.”
“I’m good.”
He picked up the plastic sack.
Gary held out his hand.
“The shirt.”
Ethan stopped.
“What?”
“Uniform belongs to the shop.”
Ethan looked down at the forest-green shirt.
It had not come from Gary.
Luis immediately said:
“That one's mine.”
Gary looked at him.
“I gave it to him.”
“Then it's not shop property.”
Gary’s jaw tightened.
Fine.
Ethan almost smiled.
Small victory.
He walked toward the exit.
The woman in the Chiefs sweatshirt stepped in front of him.
“Wait.”
Ethan stopped.
She reached into her purse.
He knew what was coming.
“No.”
She froze.
“I was just—”
“No, ma’am.”
“You don't even know.”
“Yes.”
She held folded cash.
“Please.”
Ethan shook his head.
“I’m okay.”
“You just lost your job.”