Day 47 without work. Michel sat at the kitchen table at 3 AM, laptop screen burning his retinas. 247 job applications. 38 rejections. 209 silences. The numbers had become a brutal mathematics—each silence another day closer to losing everything.
His resume had been polished, tailored, keyword-optimized. Twenty-two years of experience reduced to bullet points that disappeared into digital voids. Senior positions wanted "fresh perspectives." Entry-level wanted "growth potential." Michel existed in the space between, overqualified and under-considered.
He could hear Maria in the bathroom, running water to muffle her crying. She'd started doing that in week three, after they'd sold her grandmother's ring to make the mortgage payment. The ring had bought them one month. Her father's watch, two weeks. The good china, three days. They were running out of things to sell and lies to tell.
The refrigerator hummed, nearly empty. They'd switched to store brand everything, then to rice and beans, then to skipping meals so the kids could eat. Michel's work clothes hung loose now, his leather belt running out of holes. Dress shirts that once conveyed authority now draped like accusations.
"Daddy?" Sophie stood in the doorway, clutching her stuffed elephant. Purple pajamas, bare feet on cold tile. "Are we gonna be okay?"
The lie came automatically: "Of course, baby. Everything's fine."
But she was eight, not stupid. She'd heard the hushed arguments about money, noticed how Christmas decorations stayed in the attic, felt the house growing colder as they rationed heating oil. Her eyes—Maria's eyes—studied him with that terrible childhood wisdom that comes from watching parents pretend.
"I can sell Mr. Elephant if we need money," she whispered. "I'm too big for stuffies anyway."
Michel's throat closed. He pulled her onto his lap, breathing in her strawberry shampoo while his laptop cursor blinked at application 248.