I had every intention of going to work Sunday morning, but by eight thirty I hadn’t even showered, let alone bothered to put on clothes and makeup. Everything seemed an impossible effort and the thought of leaving the temporary cocoon I’d built myself filled me with dread.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like work. I’d held the position of office manager at a garage called Beach Body Auto for three years, although my job title sounded more glamorous than the reality, not that I cared. My daily routine consisted of answering the phones, booking appointments and issuing invoices, and the latter had dwindled considerably since a big franchise opened its doors a couple of blocks away, luring people in with bargain prices and a shiny coffee machine churning out custom-made drinks faster, and, if rumors were to be believed, way tastier than Starbucks. My boss, Mike, the sixty-five-year-old owner of Beach Body who still maintained it was the best garage name ever, remained convinced his shop would survive because of its decades-long history, customer loyalty and quality of service. The empty hoists, dwindling profits and the fact we’d lost another mechanic to our competitor all told a different story, which Mike had thus far chosen to ignore, except for us now opening on Sundays. I’d tried talking to him about it, offered to bump up our presence on social media, but Mike was old-fashioned and, other than a website, wanted nothing to do with “that stuff” because he “didn’t see the point.”

“Things will be fine, Lily,” he’d said before telling me he’d been through recessions before and come out the other side. I didn’t have the heart to keep arguing, tabling the conversation for another day instead. Mike had been good to me, given me a job after we’d struck up a conversation one morning when I’d gone to the beach to watch the sunrise, which still had me in awe every single time. We’d sat on the same bench in silence before introducing ourselves and chatting about where we were from and finding out we’d both been born on the same day in Buffalo, thirty-five years apart. He hadn’t asked for a reference, or probed much into my past, but offered me a week’s trial, after which I could tell him if I wanted the job permanently. It never seemed to occur to him he might want to let me go. As far as he was concerned, we were a perfect professional fit.