Chapter 2 - EVERYTHING BECAME A NUMBER
The first month was math.
Julian had expected the apartment to be the difficult part.
It wasn’t.
He got used to the radiator.
He got used to the six-minute walk from the 7 train.
He even got used to Mrs. Soto watching him carry groceries upstairs and saying things like:
“You bought berries?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To eat.”
“At that price?”
The hard part was numbers.
Everything was a number.
Eggs.
Bread.
Rice.
Laundry.
Toothpaste.
Train fare.
A cheap umbrella when the first one broke.
Julian had spent twenty-three years understanding prices as information other people worried about.
Now prices were decisions.
Eggs meant no beer.
Laundry meant walking instead of taking the subway twice.
A sandwich at lunch meant rice again at dinner.
By Monday morning, he had fifty-one dollars.
He applied everywhere.
Restaurants.
Hotels.
Retail.
Reception desks.
A gym.
A moving company.
One recruiter looked at his résumé and frowned.
New York University.
Economics.
Internship at Goldman Sachs.
Vance Urban Holdings — Strategy Associate.
“Why are you applying for front desk at a budget hotel?”
“Career pivot.”
She stared.
“Are you being sued?”
“Not yet.”
She did not call back.
On Tuesday, a building-material supplier in Long Island City did.
ARROYO BUILDING SUPPLY.
Warehouse associate.
$19.50 an hour.
Julian wore a navy blazer.
Luis Arroyo looked at it.
“You know this is a warehouse?”
“I own other clothes.”
“Do you?”
Julian hesitated.
Most of his clothes were still in the townhouse.
Luis almost smiled.
“You lift fifty pounds?”
“Yes.”
“Forklift?”
“No.”
“Construction materials?”
“Some.”
“From where?”
Julian told him.
Bridges.
Hotels.
Development sites.
His father had dragged him through construction projects since childhood.
Luis leaned back.
“You’re Richard Vance’s kid.”
Julian’s stomach sank.
“Yes.”
“Why are you here?”
“I need a job.”
“Your father owns buildings worth half of Midtown.”
“That does not currently buy lunch.”
Luis studied him.
“You expecting me to be impressed?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He hired him.
Julian’s first shift began at six the next morning.
At 6:22, he dropped a box of tile spacers.
At 7:11, he confused two grades of plywood.
At 8:05, a contractor named Sal told him:
“Rich boy, if you load my truck wrong again, I’m making you unload it with your teeth.”
By ten, Julian’s shoulders hurt.
By noon, he was starving.
He opened a delivery app.
Closed it.
Bought a banana from a cart.
One dollar.
That afternoon, Luis’s niece Maya Chen found Julian staring at a purchase order.
Maya ran inside sales and dispatch.
Twenty-eight.
Hair tied back.
Pencil behind one ear.
She looked at the paper.
“What?”
“This customer ordered thirty-two sheets of five-eighths Type X.”
“Yes.”
“The warehouse ticket says half-inch standard drywall.”
She looked again.
Then at him.
“Good catch.”
“Would have failed inspection.”
“You know that?”
“I’ve heard project managers scream about it since puberty.”
She corrected the ticket.
“Congratulations.”
“For what?”
“First useful thing you’ve done.”
Julian smiled.
“I’ll mark the date.”
“Don’t. You can’t afford a calendar.”
He liked her immediately.
Not romantically.
She simply spoke to him as if his last name were neither impressive nor offensive.
Friday arrived.
Julian received no paycheck.
Payroll was weekly in arrears.
His first check would come the following Friday.
He had forgotten to ask.
Elena had not.
“Rent.”
“Next Friday.”
She folded her arms.
“Today was the agreement.”
“I get paid next week.”
“Not my problem.”
Julian looked at his watch.
She looked too.
“No.”
“You said—”
“I was joking.”
“You don’t look like you joke.”
“I am very funny.”
He took off the watch anyway.
“Hold it.”
Elena frowned.
“I don’t want this.”
“Then trust me.”
She stared at him for a long moment.
“Friday.”
“Friday.”
She handed the watch back.
Julian went to his room.
He had eleven dollars.
The next seven days taught him more about food than the previous twenty-three years.
Rice.
Black beans.
Eggs.
Bananas.
Peanut butter.
No berries.
Never berries.
On Wednesday night, he came home after eleven hours and noticed a black Suburban parked across the street.
Tinted windows.
Engine running.
He saw it again Thursday.
Friday.
Saturday.
Julian crossed the street.
The driver lowered the window.
“Mr. Vance.”
Julian laughed.
“Of course.”
“Please step back from the vehicle.”
“Who are you?”
“Caleb Ross.”
He recognized the name.
Vance family security.
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been following me?”
“Since you left the townhouse.”
Anger moved through him.
“Are you reporting everything I do?”
“No.”
“Then what are you doing?”
Caleb’s expression stayed professional.
“Making sure you stay safe.”
The note.
People will make sure you stay safe.
Julian looked toward his fourth-floor window.
“Did my father pick this apartment?”
“No.”
“Did he tell Mrs. Soto to rent it to me?”
“No.”
“Did he get me the warehouse job?”
“No.”
“Did he tell Mason to throw me out?”
“No.”
“Can you prove any of that?”
Caleb almost smiled.
“No.”
“Then what can you do?”
“Intervene in a physical emergency.”
“Can you lend me twenty dollars?”
“No.”
“Buy me dinner?”
“No.”
“Give me a ride?”
“No.”
Julian laughed bitterly.
“Very useful.”
Caleb looked at him.
“Your father pays me a lot of money to be useless.”
Julian walked away.
Then Caleb called after him.
“Mr. Vance.”
Julian turned.
“Your father has not asked where you work.”
That surprised him.
“Why?”
“He told us not to tell him unless there was a safety concern.”
Julian stood under the Queens streetlight.
“Why would he do that?”
Caleb shrugged.
“He said if he knew, he would interfere.”
Julian went upstairs angry at a father who was apparently trying not to rescue him.
The next morning, Rosa appeared outside Arroyo Building Supply carrying a brown paper bag.
Julian stared.
“You can’t give me food.”
“Correct.”
She handed him the bag.
Inside was a coat.
His old brown work jacket from college.
“This is mine.”
“Yes.”
“Dad approved this?”
“Clothing you already own is not financial aid.”
“You people have rules.”
Rosa smiled.
“Your mother wrote most of them.”
Julian stopped.
“What?”
Rosa’s smile vanished.
“I said too much.”
He stepped in front of her.
“No.”
“Julian.”
“My mother died when I was thirteen. What rules?”
Rosa looked toward the warehouse door.
“Day Thirty.”
“I’m not waiting.”
“You have to.”
“Why?”
Her eyes softened.
May you like
“Because your father waited ten years.”
Then she walked away.
