My first day at the feed store paid eleven dollars an hour. After three months of nothing, I didn't negotiate.
I could've caught the 5:40 bus. Twelve minutes home. Instead I walked the long way, past the reservoir and through the old mill district.
It was an off-season Tuesday in November. The reservoir was flat and the benches were empty.
There's a flashlight by the back door of my apartment. I took it even though the route was lit. Just to hold something, maybe.
I walked for forty-six minutes. I didn't check my phone. I didn't hurry.
Three months of applications, of silence, of telling my sister I was fine. And then this. A job nobody would brag about, and a walk home I made last on purpose.
That was the part that felt like starting over. Not the job. The choosing to go slow when I finally had somewhere to be.