He found a spot near a bus stop bench and changed quickly, folding his old clothes into his bag. He brushed his shoes with napkins, wiped dust off his sleeves. He didn’t look polished, but he looked like someone trying—and sometimes, that was enough.
He waited outside the laundromat for twenty minutes before going in. The man behind the counter glanced up. “Temp job?” Joshua nodded. They talked briefly—could he handle long shifts? “Yes,” he said. That was it. “Trial run. Tomorrow. Six a.m. sharp.”
Outside, Joshua let out a long breath. Not relief, not joy—but something like quiet hope. Behind a delivery van, he changed back into his old clothes, folding the church ones carefully into a plastic bag. He couldn’t risk ruining them before tomorrow.
That night, he and Lucky settled near the loading dock again. Joshua pulled his worn coat tighter, leaning against the wall. Lucky curled up beside him, resting his head on Joshua’s foot. Joshua stared at the sky. “I think I’ve got a shot this time,” he whispered.
Lucky licked his cheek. Joshua patted his back. “Just one good day,” he murmured. “Let me have that. I’ll figure the rest out later.” He closed his eyes, clinging to that flicker of hope until sleep pulled him under.
It hit without warning. One minute the sky was calm; the next, thunder boomed and rain poured down like someone had tipped a bucket. Joshua jolted awake, heart racing. He lunged for his bag—the plastic was thin, and water had seeped through.
“Shit, no,” he muttered, yanking it open. The button-down was soaked, sticking to the pants like they’d been dunked. He shook them out, staring up at the sky with a hollow feeling—there was nothing he could do.
He pulled off his coat, trying to shield the clothes, but it was too late. The ground around him was a shallow puddle. Lucky whimpered, huddling under a bent shopping cart. Joshua pressed the clothes to his chest, as if his warmth could dry them.
By morning, everything was soaked. He found a flickering public restroom and slammed the door, shoving the shirt under the hand dryer. Steam rose, but it wasn’t enough. The pants were worse—heavy, wrinkled, still damp.
He tried everything: squeezing out water, flipping the shirt under the heater, patting his shoes dry with toilet paper. The floor was a mess, the mirror fogged. He stared at his reflection—red face, tired eyes, breath coming fast. He looked like a man begging the world not to see how hard he was trying.
He ran to the laundromat, shoes squelching, sleeves sticking to his arms. He pushed through the door at six-thirty. The man behind the counter frowned. “You’re late. Other guy showed up on time.”