Dan’s alarm went off. Six-thirty. Enough time for him to hit snooze once, before it bugged him again.
He rolled himself out of bed. Shower, shave, shirt, all a steady, automatic rhythm. His wife had opened the kitchen window, let in some fresh air. He could hear the sound of next door’s sprinklers. He poured coffee, buttered toast. Set his phone down after a few seconds of scrolling headlines, just long enough that he felt he knew something.
The drive to work was steady. Traffic not bad. School bus in front of him, couple of trucks heading the other way. Red lights all the way down Main Street felt almost personal. Outside the courthouse, the metal barriers held a cluster of people by the gates. He didn’t look long enough to see if they were waiting, or being kept back. A green light, and he pressed the gas.
Radio briefly muttered about “expanded security measures” in certain cities. Dan twisted the dial until guitar riffs replaced the flat newsreader. His wife listened more than he did, she’d fill him in if there was anything that mattered.
Morning like every morning at the factory. Punch clock, humming machines, foreman barking “motivational” comments about quotas. He sat with the same three guys as always over lunch. Talked about last night’s ball game, that last inning turnaround. Heat was supposed to last through the weekend. Dan said he might grill. Someone mentioned another bump in soda prices at the store. They complained, finished their coffee, went back to work.
Shirt was clinging to his back by the end of shift. That good, familiar, ache of hard work well done. Driving home took him past the usual landmarks. Strip mall, elementary school, city hall. He turned at the boarded-up house where the Martinez family had lived before their troubles. He didn’t slow down. By the gas station, two men in uniform leaned against their car, chatting. He nodded to them out of habit, one of them raised a hand in return.
Leftovers for dinner. His wife was folding laundry while the TV muttered about arrests, reforms, stability. Dan ate at the table, scrolling on his phone. Hum of the dryer in the background, dog looking longingly in the hope he’d drop it a scrap.
There was still enough light when he finished eating. Air had cooled, but it was still warm. He pulled weeds from the flowerbed, dropped them in a bucket, threw them in the compost. Coiled the garden hose back on its rack. Sprinklers ticked in slow arcs.
The sky went from pink to purple, porch lights blinking on down the street. Dan wiped his hands on his trousers, checked the latch on the gate, and went inside.