Overpass
J. Adam Bedard
He puts the “Will Work for Food” sign down in the dirt at dawn, next to his daughter. The soiled child sleeps on the backpack he pinched from the dumpster of a convenience store. On the off-ramp of the freeway, cars file past in a funeral procession for his dignity. They have places to get to. He has only the place he has come from.
A young driver, perusing them, does not notice the green light. There is the blare of impatient horns. The little girl awakens.
“I’m sorry, Boo.”
“For what Daddy?”
“Losing my job. Letting cancer take your mom. Having you lie in the dirt.”
“It’s OK, I love you,” she says as she unfurls. “We’ll be OK. You can sleep now.”
She lifts the sign from the dirt. As she turns towards traffic and the morning sun, the family business passes from one generation to the next.
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