"Nobody can beat me!" he yelled into the microphone, flashing a bleached-white smile.Then, a tired guy in steel-toe boots quietly handed his daughter his grocery bags.William didn't wake up looking for a fight. He woke up at 4:30 a.m. because the radiator in his apartment clanked like a dying engine, and his lower back felt like it was filled with ground glass. He was 38; most days, he felt 50.He sat on the edge of a mattress that had lost its structural integrity three years ago, staring at his boots. They were scuffed leather, permanently stained with Freon, compressor oil, and the unidentifiable sludge that accumulated in the basements of the commercial buildings he serviced. William was an HVAC technician. It was a job that paid exactly enough to keep a man from starving, but never enough to let him sleep through the night without doing mental math.From the other room, a soft cough broke the silence. William rubbed his face, feeling the rough sandpaper of a two-day beard, and stood up. His left knee popped; it always did—a souvenir from a torn meniscus in his 20s that he never had the time or insurance to get properly fixed.He walked into the living room, which doubled as a bedroom for his eight-year-old daughter, Maya. She was asleep, one arm draped over a stuffed dog that had lost an eye to a washing machine incident in 2022. William pulled the thin blanket up to her chin.The math started immediately: It was the 15th of the month. Rent was due in two weeks. His truck, a rust-bitten 2008 Chevy Colorado that he needed to get to work, was making a high-pitched whine in third gear that screamed transmission failure; a rebuilt transmission was two grand. He had exactly $342 in checking. Maya's school field trip to the state capital was $80, due tomorrow. He also needed to buy milk, eggs, and bread.There was no margin for error. There was never any margin.William went to the kitchen, poured a cup of stale coffee from the pot he'd left on the warmer since yesterday, and drank it black. It tasted like burnt copper. He didn't care; it was fuel.By 5:30 p.m. that evening, the day had chewed William up and spit him out. He had spent six hours in a 110-degree attic replacing ductwork, followed by three hours arguing with a restaurant manager who didn't want to pay the emergency service fee. William's hands were cramped into tight, aching claws.He picked up Maya from her after-school program. She climbed into the passenger seat of the Chevy, carefully avoiding the exposed foam where the upholstery had torn."How was work, Dad?" she asked, buckling her seatbelt."Hot," William said. He managed a tired smile. "How was school?"