The job posting seemed to mock him: "Overnight Custodial Services – Brennan Industries."
Michel stared at the screen until the words blurred. The same building. The same address he'd written on business cards with "Director of Operations" beneath his name. Now they wanted someone to clean those offices, empty those trash bins, mop those marble floors he'd walked in Italian leather.
Starting pay: $11.50 an hour. Night shift. No experience necessary.
He closed the laptop. Opened it. Closed it again. In the kitchen, Maria was teaching Sophie fractions with measuring cups—homeschool now, because after-school programs cost money. David sat at the table sketching, his math homework finished an hour ago, pretending not to notice his parents' fear.
The cursor blinked. Michel thought of his office—former office—on the fourteenth floor. Whoever sat there now probably never wondered who cleaned it at night. He'd never wondered either, just arrived each morning to find his trash emptied, his windows spotless, his world maintained by invisible hands.
Cleaning the offices where he'd once led meetings. Mopping floors he'd walked as a manager. The application cursor blinked at him for twenty minutes.
Pride was a luxury he couldn't afford. Not with $47.83 in quarters on his kitchen table and two kids who believed their daddy could fix anything.
His fingers moved across the keyboard. Previous experience: "Twenty-two years maintaining operational excellence." It wasn't a lie. Cleaning was operations. Dignity was excellence. Survival was all that mattered now.
He clicked submit.
The confirmation email came immediately. "Thank you for your interest in joining our custodial team." Like he'd crossed into another universe where Michel Martinez had always belonged to the night shift, had always been invisible.
From the kitchen, Sophie laughed at something Maria said. The sound was worth any humiliation.