He saw the envelope, the return address. A government agency. Worse, a tax agency.
His heart sank. Every monthly penny is already accounted for. A surprise would cripple him.
He tore the envelope apart. The paper inside was a bureaucratic mess of words and numbers. He skipped right to the end instead.
The State wanted almost five hundred bucks.
He picked up the phone, grumbling, his hand trembling. He needed help, but the chipper automated voice only could give him a wait time. Three hours plus.
The old man hung up the phone in silence.
Not today. Maybe not ever…
The Weekday One Hundred 