The job fair was the following Saturday, at the Works.

It was supposed to start at nine o'clock.

When I drove up at six in the morning, in Dad's truck, the line already went out of the gates, down Factory Road, and around the corner onto Main Street.

Hundreds of people. In the cold and the dark, with flasks of coffee and folding chairs. Young people. Old people. Moms with toddlers. Men who'd worked at the Works before, and their sons and daughters who'd never had the chance.

I walked slowly down the line, saying good morning.

Halfway down, I saw Tiffany Dawson. She'd been working at the department store in the next town until it closed in the spring.

She went pink when she saw me.

“Hi, Wyatt,” she said quietly.

“Morning, Tiffany. Thanks for coming.”

A little further down, I saw Dale Kramer. Holding a folder with his résumé in it, in a shirt and tie that looked like they'd been bought for a funeral.

He saw me and looked at his shoes.

“Hey, Wyatt,” he mumbled. “About the sign…”

“Dale,” I said. “Do you still know how to drive a forklift?”

He looked up.

“Best on the team,” he said.

“Then go and see the lady at table three,” I said. “And tell her I said you're not allowed to sell my truck.”