His left hand gripped the chain-link fence as he reached upwards with his right. He was almost at the top. Just a few more inches and then… freedom.
But he’d never make it.
He felt a big, meaty hand clamp around his ankle. A firm grasp, one he couldn’t shake.
“Not so fast,” said the fat man in the bloody white apron.
The local butcher pried him off the fence, tossing him to the ground.
“You owe me two pounds of ground chuck,” he bellowed.
But the kid didn’t have the meat or a good excuse.
The kid had nothing.
The Weekday One Hundred 