The Paper Bag Factory.
The rain bit into Elias’s cheeks like tiny shards of glass. His coat was thin, threadbare at the elbows; his boots leaked so badly he could feel cold water squelching between his toes with every step. He’d walked four miles—every bus fare gone to buy his little girl’s antibiotics, every coin counted twice. It had been eight months since he’d lost his job. Eight months of empty cupboards, of his wife forcing a smile while she made one loaf of bread last three days, of waking in the small hours wondering how they’d keep the roof over their heads. The next day when he pushed open the factory’s rusted metal door, the smell hit him first: wet paper, chemical bleach, and something sweet, sickly, that seemed to hit the back of his throat. A man stood hunched by the reception counter, shoulders bowed, knuckles white around a crumpled CV. He looked just as worn down: sunken eyes, unshaven, a shirt patched at the cuffs, hands that trembled like he was freezing even though the air was thick...