Merlot wondered why a minimum-wage job had stopped offering even basic protection from the cold. He'd always believed that working hard was supposed to guarantee at least one thing — a roof over his head. Why, then, was he expected to feel proud when people asked where he was from, instead of ashamed that a job could no longer buy the comfort of a home?
His mother had decided to return north to stay with a friend, her health steadily declining. He could still email her, but it wasn't the same as sitting beside her in her apartment. Had she forgotten that "universal health care" came with a smaller paycheck from a job that barely covered her bills? She had no desire to retire—not after losing years of work raising him. The move left him bitter. The voice in his head insisted he had no body beyond what it imagined.
She is jealous, Merlot thought bitterly as he sipped his coffee. The Sangria war is a piece of the American pie — and she isn't getting a slice.
Merlot looked out the window onto the streets of New York. America was home, not a tourist attraction for someone unwilling to claim it.
He turned back to the manuscript on his desk. His head throbbed, the voice inside refusing to acknowledge his existence — as if he were just another character, waiting to be written.