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Eighteen dollars and seventy-five cents.

Before fuel. Before taxes.

Before the slow erosion of my soul.

“Have a good afternoon,” I say.

She’s already turning away. “You too.”

I doubt she means it.

I walk out through the front doors and immediately breathe easier.

Outside, the afternoon is bright and surprisingly warm. The school grounds spread in every direction in careful, manicured perfection.

Gray stone buildings sit around wide lawns clipped so evenly they look artificial. Red and yellow flowers line the paths. A fountain sprays water into the air beside a circular driveway where luxury cars roll forward one by one to collect students.

Mercedes.

Range Rover.

Bentley.

Another Mercedes.

My Honda is parked farther down the drive with one mismatched hubcap and a small dent over the rear wheel.

I look at it.

It looks back at me.

We understand each other.

My phone vibrates, and I pull it from my jacket.

An email notification fills the screen.

Blackwell Capital — Junior Financial Analyst Application

My stomach jumps before I can stop it.

Pathetic.

After seventy-something applications, I should’ve developed emotional immunity by now.

I haven’t.

I tap the message.

Dear Ms. Bennett,

That’s never good.

People who want to hire me tend to call.

People who write Dear Ms. Bennett are preparing to professionally crush my spirit.

I continue reading.