11 Chapter 11

Leading the way through stacks of old tires and around coiled hoses hanging from the hydraulics above, Ange showed Tyler into Mack’s office. A battered time clock hung on the wall just inside the door, and Ange’s friend Lamar sat at Mack’s desk, kicked back in the boss’s chair with his feet propped up on an open drawer. His black skin shone like oil beneath the halogen lights, his work shirt unbuttoned to expose a dingy tank top that had once been white.

Even now, gray from use, the shirt seemed bright against his dark flesh. “Ange!” Lamar called out, his voice too loud in the close office. Then, noticing Tyler, he asked, “Who the fuck is this?”

“Hey.” Tyler stepped forward, hand out. “I’m—”