Jimmy needed seven more dollars to make rent. Seven. The kind of number that makes you laugh because it might as well be a million. He dug through the couch cushions—fifty cents. Checked the pockets of last week’s jeans—crumpled receipt, no cash.
At the corner store, he bought a scratch-off with his last buck. Scratched it with the edge of a broken house key.
Loser.
The clerk smirked. Jimmy smirked back.
"Figures," he said.
Outside, he lit a cigarette and stared at the sky. Rent would have to wait. So would everything else.
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