situation, the constant low-grade terror that someone official would show up at the door, pressed down on him so hard he could barely breathe.
On those nights he would take out his mother’s framed photo, the one from the supply closet, which now lived on his nightstand, and he would look at it for a while and then he would go to sleep and get up in the morning and do it again.
What he did not do on those nights was call anyone.
He did not tell his co-workers.
