First night shift as a hospital tech. The vending machine by the east elevators hummed a low constant note. Midnight, and I had one dollar and fourteen cents in my scrub pocket.
First payday was three days away. I'd moved here with almost nothing — a duffel bag, a box of kitchen stuff, and a junk drawer's worth of things I couldn't explain packing, including a green swim cap from high school I hadn't worn in six years.
I wanted the Chex Mix. One twenty-five. Eleven cents short. I just stood there.
A nurse named Darlene walked up, dropped a dime and a penny in the slot, and didn't say a word about it. She asked if it was my first job. I said yes. She said she started on this floor thirty-one years ago, same machine, still humming.
That was the beginning. I didn't know it then. I thought the beginning was the interview, or the move, or the day I got the offer letter.
It was standing at that machine, broke and scared, and having someone drop eleven cents into my life without making me feel small about it.