Cary was still thinking about the last case of the day as she unlocked her car, twenty minutes past end of shift. She came dangerously close to making one of her clients cry; a single mother, thirty-six, working full-time, part-time, and going to school with two sons, seven and four. All but falling asleep in the chair, she told Cary about how she ran into her husband the other day, and it still left her stressed out of her mind.

The client quietly noted that they’re separated, and he was not quite abusive but he said some things that hurt her bad, before scampering to the part where he offered her money. He’s in a good place, she said, but how could she accept something like that? He was the one who told her she couldn’t do it, after all.

“I know it sucks,” Cary told her, “but take it. Just take the money. God knows no one can find it anywhere else.”

As she said it, she could see the woman’s face pinch and concave. She could almost see ‘so he was right after all’ written across her face. And Cary knew better than to tell her she wasn’t, because what good would that do? No one believes ‘you can do it’ until they’ve actually done it, and all the less when they hear it from a stranger.

All she could do was offer a box of tissues, which was met with a nod of thanks and no tears. “You’re not any less strong,” Cary said. The woman nodded again. Cary suspected she didn’t believe it.

Just a few minutes before, after taking a little longer to proofread her resume, and give her as many tips as she could--maybe look into debt consolidation?--her client left, still disappointed in herself. And yet as she crossed the door, she turned to Cary with an attempt at a smile. “You’re right though. Thanks.”

And that’s what Cary tried to keep in her head. She liked to pretend that, somehow, she absorbed some of that darkness that would otherwise live in the back of her client’s mind--because they’re not stupid! Why does everyone act like they are? Why are so many of her coworkers hell bent on sugar coating every fall so they don’t have to feel this?

Cary almost snorted to herself. It was petty. But it was that kind of petty that kept her going.

---

On Saturday, Cary’s phone buzzed a little past two, when she was beginning to wonder if she should start eating lunch. She was in the middle of her favorite weekend activity; alternating between trying to read an actual book while watching shows on Netflix she already saw. Oh, Mimemo, she thought as the cheery bubble blossomed on the top of her phone’s messages. Must be something from Mom.

She flicked open her phone and swallowed a sigh. It was those goddamn pop idols from yesterday. They were clustered around a selfie, giving barely enough room for the first half of the Career Forward sign to make it to the frame. Isn’t this where you work, hon?

No sooner than Cary could type a frantic, “Don’t know, don’t think so,” her mom began to lament lost opportunity. Ah, I could have made fast money! Carla and Rosamie would have paid me through the nose to get autographs, she said. Apparently her work friends’ kids were big into DCT. Any other band, Cary thought, and that would have been cute.

Cary half wondered if her mother would have hated taken the money. She loved Papa to bits, so it probably would be the other way around; she’d give up every single penny she earned from cradle to grave to bring him back. And she would swallow her pride, like she did for Cary and her brother and sister. She’d go to social services, and deal with all those fake smiles and case workers saying the exact same things her coworkers do now.

Oh yeah, she thought. That’s why I wanted to get into social services back then, wasn’t it?

Her mom deserved more than this, but it wasn't a bad start: talking about her new best friends and running circles around Cary on every social media site devised by man. Her mom was deep into sending new pictures of the dogs, but Cary couldn’t help but type I love you, Nanay.

---

It was on Sunday, as she made a late-night run to pick up some detergent, that it finally hit her what pissed her off about Dream Come True setting up shop in Ferris City. Long before the recession, its back was broken when the factories outsourced and shut down after regulation repeal after repeal. It survived on a depressed state, leaving its citizens to similarly live well enough or move on.

But that was the thing--it didn’t survive by sitting around and doing nothing. Everyone worked so hard, so goddamn hard, to keep it going. Every cashier was going to school. Every waitress was picking up shifts somewhere else. Every nurse, teacher, guard, and paper jockey had a side business, or dumpster dived, or visited the food pantry.

It wasn’t seeing these rich, too-young, too-pretty people pretend to be poor for a day that made her mad--though she can’t imagine something like that was at play. After all, as she passed by hastily handwritten memorabilia at the Gas Station saying “Welcome DCT!”, she felt a sting closer to middle school jealousy than righteous indignation.

When she saw a little girl eagerly tug her mom toward it, as if she found some hidden treasure in plain sight, she felt her ire gain some clarity. Not so much from the kid herself (that was kind of cute), but the mother’s smile got to her: it wasn’t tired and pacifying, but honestly giddy. Like some kind of recognition. They’re in this too!

And it’s not just you, thought Cary, as she carried the detergent between the brick-tight packs of cars in the parking lot, but they aren’t a part of it. It sucks. It’s hell. And all they’re doing is playing “Pretend to be Poor for a Week”.

And that, she discovered, is why she wanted them to stop. Ferris City didn’t need another reason to feel bad for dying on its feet. No matter if her mom’s friends knew. No matter the strange, party atmosphere that followed her to the keyhole of her car, where here hand hovered just before twisting open the gear. No matter if, for a delirious moment, people actually seemed happy the day before going back to work.

“I really am,” she said, finally voicing what she wanted to say ever since that last client on Friday, “a huge ass, aren’t I?”