Darius pulls on the same jeans he wore yesterday. He checks the pocket for his bus fare. $3.47. Enough to get to work, not enough to get back. He\u2019ll have to walk the three miles home tonight, but that\u2019s okay. He\u2019s walked farther for less.<\/p>\n
The walk to Murphy\u2019s Diner takes him through neighborhoods that tell different stories\u2014past the nice houses with manicured lawns and cars in driveways; past the apartment complex where his friend Jerome lives, where the parking lot is full of potholes and broken dreams; past the abandoned shopping mall where older kids hang out, smoking and planning futures that probably won\u2019t happen.<\/p>\n
Murphy\u2019s Diner sits at the corner of Fifth and Main, a beacon of fluorescent light in the pre-dawn darkness. Big Mike is already there prepping for the morning rush. He nods at Darius\u2014not unfriendly, just busy. They don\u2019t talk much, but there\u2019s respect there. Mike knows Darius shows up every day, works harder than employees twice his age, and never complains.<\/p>\n
In the kitchen, Darius\u2019s hands move through familiar motions: stack of plates, hot soapy water, scrub, rinse, dry, repeat. His hands are rough now, calloused from months of this routine. Sometimes he looks at them and wonders if college hands look different. Softer, maybe. Hands that hold textbooks instead of dish towels.<\/p>\n
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