Chapter 13 – Fired
I woke up early. Not because of the system. Not for football. But because it was time to face real life.
My job.
It had been almost two weeks since the accident. The hospital stay. The scenarios. The Sunday match.
But I still hadn't gone back to the delivery office.
So, I put on my most decent shirt—light blue, barely wrinkled—and walked the ten minutes to the small courier company where I worked part-time.
The sign outside hadn't changed: Express Hound Deliveries. It was crooked as always.
I stepped inside.
The front desk had the usual stack of papers, taped pens, and the half-dead potted plant no one ever remembered to water.
Behind the desk sat Rosa, the receptionist. Early thirties. Fierce eyeliner. Always chewing gum.
She looked up from her monitor the moment I entered.
Her eyes widened slightly. "Carlos. You're alive."
I smiled weakly. "More or less."
She popped her gum. "The boss is pissed."
That wiped the smile off my face.
"Still?"
