Jonas Lee had rehearsed the interview in his mind countless times during the nights he spent awake in his car. The rusted upholstery, the cracked windshield, the faint scent of old coffee and fast food clung to the small space he called home, but here, waiting in the sterile fluorescent glow of the warehouse office, he tried to leave it all behind.
The receptionist was polite but brisk, guiding him toward a narrow hallway with peeling paint and a buzzing overhead light. Jonas's fingers trembled slightly as he smoothed his worn jacket, doing his best to look like someone who belonged here, not someone who slept in a vehicle three blocks away.
The door swung open, and a man in his fifties, wearing a high-visibility vest over a stained button-up shirt, sat behind a cluttered desk. His name tag read "Mr. Calderon." Jonas swallowed his nerves.
"Mr. Lee, right? Have a seat."
Jonas nodded, settling into a squeaky metal chair that protested under his weight. He glanced at the resume he'd printed on a borrowed printer earlier that morning, the edges slightly curled, the ink faint in places.
"Tell me about your last job," Mr. Calderon began, eyes flicking to the resume, then back.
Jonas cleared his throat. "I was a stock clerk for a mid-sized retail chain. Handled inventory, unloading shipments, organizing stockrooms."
"Sounds straightforward enough," Calderon said, leaning back. "Why did you leave?"
Jonas hesitated, the truth lodged tight in his throat. "Let's say the company went through some restructuring."
Calderon's gaze sharpened. "Right. And your current address?"
Jonas felt a cold wave wash over him. He had scribbled a temporary address on the application—a friend's place he hadn't been to in months. It was the only way to avoid the 'no fixed address' box that might've been an immediate rejection.
He looked down at the paper, unable to meet Calderon's eyes.
"That address," Calderon said slowly, "is… vacant."
The word hung in the air, heavy and final.
Jonas's cheeks burned. The practiced veneer cracked but didn't crumble. He managed a small smile, shaky but sincere.
"Well," he said softly, "thank you anyway."
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the concrete floor.
Calderon didn't say a word.
Jonas's hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, he pushed the door open and stepped into the afternoon light. The city was indifferent, the muffled hum of distant traffic swallowing his footsteps.
He walked without destination, the weight of shame pressing down on him like an anchor. Each step echoed the countless nights spent staring at the ceiling of his cramped car, wondering if things would ever change.
A familiar hum grew behind him.
Without warning, the taxi slowed alongside the curb, window rolling down to reveal the driver's patient, unspoken offer.
Jonas hesitated, glanced back. No words passed between them.
He climbed in, the worn coat the driver silently pressed into his lap feeling heavier than it had before.
As the car pulled away, Jonas stared out at the city skyline—rough edges softened by the fading light—and for the first time in weeks, something fragile stirred inside him. A quiet resolve to keep moving, no matter how small the steps.