It was a hundred and eight degrees in Scottsdale when I walked into Sterling Motors.

I'd just finished an eight-hour delivery shift. I was wearing brown work shorts, steel-toe boots, and a faded orange polo shirt with Callahan Freight on the pocket. It was soaked with sweat. I had a pen behind my ear and a scanner clipped to my belt.

The showroom was like a palace. White marble floors. Glass walls. Shiny cars on turning platforms. Cold air that hit me like a wave.

A salesman in a slim gray suit looked up from his phone. His name badge said Brent.

He looked at my boots. My shorts. My shirt. Then he smiled. Not a nice smile.

“Deliveries go through the side door, buddy,” he said. “Around the back. Ask for Gus in parts.”

“I'm not delivering anything,” I said. “I'm here to look at the eCargo vans. The new electric ones.”

Brent laughed. He turned to a woman at the next desk, who was filing her nails.

“Courtney, he wants to look at the eCargo.”

Courtney laughed too.

“Those start at seventy-eight thousand dollars, sir,” Brent said slowly, like I might not understand numbers. “Maybe try the used lot on Van Buren Street.”