I worked the overnight shift at a gas station for a year. The night shift does something to daylight—makes it feel borrowed, not yours.
I'd sleep through the morning, wake up to a gray afternoon, and forget there was such a thing as real sun.
The first cold morning of fall, I found my piggy bank tipped over on the dresser. The rubber stopper had been missing for months, but I never fixed it.
Coins had leaked out into a small pile on the floor. I'd been saving for a ferry ticket to see my mom on the mainland.
The pile was maybe fourteen cents short. I thought the chance was gone—like the stopper, like the night shift.
Then my phone rang. The school district needed a long-term substitute starting that same day.
I said yes. And that afternoon, I stood outside the school, feeling the cold air and the real light on my face.
The piggy bank is still empty. But the ferry fare isn't. I'm leaving next weekend.