For the workers of Pittsburgh, the morning always came too soon.
Luna stood in the narrow kitchen, the stainless-steel milk pan on the gas stove hissing softly.
She turned off the flame and expertly poured the hot milk into a cup decorated with a cartoon dinosaur.
It was breakfast for her four-year-old son, Jimmy.
Heavy snores echoed from the bedroom behind her.
Her husband, Jim, had just gotten back from his night shift. He'd collapsed into bed without even taking off his work clothes.
His feet, sticking out from under the covers, were caked with grease and dirt.
Before, Luna would have complained about Jim getting the sheets dirty.
But now, looking at the grime, all she felt was a sense of security.
Six months ago, Jim had been unemployed, spending his days staring blankly at the TV. The house then had been as clean as a morgue, its silence maddening.
It was a little dirtier now, but this was what it meant to be alive.
