“Okay, okay, I get it, you’re in the middle of things here. I’ll cut to the chase.” The tall man puts his hand over the counter to shake Saul’s and says, “I’m Joey Colicchio, and I’d like to give you a promotion.” The truth is, Joey Colicchio knows that Saul studied English for years before fleeing, and has been watching him for weeks. He’s young, strong, and spends all of his time outside of work alone. He’s a perfect candidate for a delicate position.

Standing still, delicatessen spinning around him, looking at the Italian man who has just offered him a job for no reason he can discern, Saul is stretched between curiosity and fear. Trust no one, his mother had said. But also, make me proud.

“Grossman!” erupts Carol’s militant growl. Saul looks up, drops Joey Colicchio’s hand, says, “I’ve really got to get back to work,” and turns back to his station, where at least ten tickets are lined up in a row at the edge of the counter. “Turkey on white,” Saul repeats to himself, refocusing. “Pastrami on rye, turkey on rye, tongue with mustard.”

“I’ll be back, kid,” comes Joey Colicchio’s voice from behind him. And then, “Damn, this is a good sandwich.”

—

Seven hours later, Saul is standing on Houston Street watching the early morning traffic thunder by. The sky is pink and periwinkle and streaked with the first yellow light from the sun, which has risen over the bridges connecting Manhattan to Brooklyn by gossamer strings. As it does every clear, cold morning, the overwhelming stench and noise of work seems like a dream.

—

Back in Brooklyn, Joey Colicchio kisses his sleeping wife’s forehead and inhales the familiar dust and detergent of his bedroom. He pauses at the window to look out over the still-sleeping buildings of South Brooklyn before drawing the shade against the bright morning sun. He disrobes, leaving his suspenders clipped to his trousers in a puddle on the floor and his socks in small white balls. Without looking down, he knows his body shows the unmistakable signs of middle age—his legs have lost some of their tone and his torso is more barrel-shaped than it used to be; his skin hangs more softly on his muscles; his muscles don’t cling to the bone the way they once did. The mat of curled hair across his chest is flecked with gray and plastered across thinning skin. He climbs into bed next to his wife and moves the bulk of his body against the pliable curves of hers. She leans back against him, and her smell, unearthed from its cavern of sheets, fills the air of their bedroom. Outside there are jobs unfinished—a young man not yet hired; plans not put into place; debts to be paid.