William stood, “Mister Stone, we no longer need your services.” His lip curled, and pulled up his pants. Despite his belt, the bulbous gut pushed them down. “I have great faith in my supervisors,” he raised his chins.

“Because, they back your lies,” Kayden returned, “when your boss asks why we lost contracts, they lie.” Brian and Sheila blinked, both wore similar looks. Like a surprise finger in the bum, Kayden mused.

William’s face turned a dangerous shade of plum, finger raised, mouth opened. He froze, closed his mouth, and his color returned to its milky shade. “Don’t expect a call, Mister Stone,” he smiled though eyes slashed at Kayden. “During your transition, it would be a time for reflection. Maybe, you may find another employer, who needs someone so smart, they’re useless.” Before anyone could speak up, William held up a hand, “Leave, Mister Stone, or I’ll call the police.”

Kayden looked at them. William scowled; Brian grinned like a cat that got the cream. Sheila’s ever present smirk returned, and a hand went to the phone on her desk. He stepped out of the office, before anger could get the law called.

Through his fury, the gust of icy wind cooled his passions. Unaccustomed to unemployment, he grasped at every thought. Kayden cursed. He tried to think of any plan of action, but persistent was his anger. Possible plans were constructed, discarded, despite the fog of emotion. At occasional intervals he paused, until reminded by the cold to keep walking.

Before the car Kayden stopped, frowned. The scene before him broke though the haze of thoughts, slights, and indignities incurred. Door open, the contents of his car was thrown about the lot. Inside, the thief had cut the seats and gouged the wheel. Kayden’s head hung for a moment, he studied scars on his hands. A flake of snow landed on his neck, melted, and stung with another wintry blast. No matter how low one fell, he thought, there was always a way to be stomped deeper.

He gathered up his belongings, and put them back inside the cab. Kayden inserted the key, turned it, but the car was dead. He rested his head against the wheel, felt its coolness. A sob slipped out, but he squeezed his eyes closed. Better do something, a worn out voice offered.

Kayden got out. The local parts store would let him borrow a jumper, but they were closed today. He looked at the plant, and William watched him. “Better get out of here,” he whispered, fog of his breath hung on the air.

Over the gravel he trudged. The asphalt was little better. Kayden paused at the edge of the plant’s property. It had deep cracks that run through it. I guess I never noticed, he mused. This revelation revealed more of the world’s shabbiness.

Along the road, Kayden saw other plants were closed. They were shuttered, each warned trespassers. The Van Lear family owned all the land, so none dared to destroy or squat inside the buildings. Some families blamed them for the county’s dissolution, but others believed they were purging the outsider filth. He needed to find a job, but none were open. Flakes of snow grew fatter, a dusting of snow clung to the road. Beside him the chain link fence held icicles. He trudged on, stopped only to see more were closed, but pressed on.

Eventually, the road ended with the edge of the industrial park. The people, who could afford better, lived in these homes. More of them were empty, he saw. When did this happen? No answer came. One had a wreck vehicle in the yard, which looked abandoned, though Kayden was unsure. Before Jillian had been hurt, they have lived nearby. He smiled at all the plans they had made within its walls. Hope, once abounded, but he could find none now. He moved past.

At the top of Lear Mountain was Swannanoa, where the Old Money had ruled at the town’s founding. Beneath it, the New Money of Duncannon aspired to the decadence of the family’s above. Below all was Owl Sticks. Beyond where Kayden lived was the forest, though he avoided them.

More had joined them, or if they were smart, they have moved away. Clusters of trailer parks and decrepit houses comprised the lowest section. The road was broke to ruins in spots, and the cat piss stink of meth labs. Busted engine’s bled oil and anti-freeze, which mixed with dirt. Dogs on heavy chains glowered at pedestrians, ready to bite. Damp boots made the bones in his feet ache. Skeletal, pock marked figures watched from porches, yards, or houses. They were numbed to escape this truth, this desolation. Kayden glanced at dirty children, whose parents were no doubt too strung out to watch them. In the dirty window of a parked truck, he saw the same desperation in his eyes, which marked the others.

The sharp horn ripped Kayden from the darksome thoughts, and he stepped off the road. It glided over the road. Of a vintage make and model, its beauty was alien in Owl Sticks. People retreated from it, yet he could only stare. Its dark glass obfuscated the driver, until they passed him on the street. Dressed as eloquently as his ride, the man’s eyes were pale, nearly white, and Kayden could swear it was the glaze of the blind. Their eyes met.

Passed him the vintage car glided. A pothole in the road was before it, but Kayden sensed the driver was focused on him. Wheels struck broken pavement, trunk popped open, and a package dropped on the road. As the man with the pale eyes turned, he jerked, and he called for him to stop.

He picked up the pack. Deep was Kayden’s frown, and he turned the parcel in his hands. Wrapped in paper, secured by grass string, it was light. Empty, he believed, I think. The string, damaged by the fall, broke in his hands. He sighed, dejected, for he would have to return it, if it had anything inside.