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He grabs a folder off the desk, paper-clips a fifty dollar bill to the W-2 form inside, and offers it to me. “Fill these out before you come in.”
I take it from him, once again feeling warm relief fill my chest. “Thank you, Mr. Trin,” I say.
He pats my shoulder as he passes back onto the shop floor. “Welcome home, kid.”
My smile deepens. I’d forgotten that he used to call me that. It’s strange how it all comes back. Not just the physical details of a life once lived but the emotions that came with it. I really do feel like shit for leaving Mr. Trin in a bind the way I did. He was one of two people in this town who pretended to give a crap about me, after all.
The second person? Well…
That story is much longer.
And it hurts twice as much.
