Severed Bonds
Even after serving his sentence, the compensation amount snowballed. The ankle monitor robbed him of his freedom, and every job closed its doors to him. His mother’s answering machine was his last connection, but even that eventually stopped ringing. The names in his phone book faded to gray, and her voice grew faint in his memory.
The motel manager warned him. “It’s monsoon season tonight. It’s dangerous out there.” But Nate had nowhere else to go and took shelter under the bridge. He placed his belongings on wet cardboard and hugged his knees. Above him, a sign read: “NO LITTERING — $1000 FINE.” Raindrops blurred the letters, seeming to look down on him with irony.
