Sunday to Sunday for three gloomy years, you’ve been packing groceries at Uncle Ram’s Supermarket and Hardware. In the small, dark store that smelled of old sweat and mildewed cloth, you slipped sanitary napkins into small dark bags, arranged soft drinks next to boxes of assorted candy while hyperactive children toppled displays, their parents unseeing. Flour, rice, oil, salt, sugar, paper towels, foil, matches, butter, eggs, milk, rum, endless rum. This is the only steady work you’ve been able to keep since being released from prison three years ago. You hate it here, the stench of the dark aisles has seeped into your skin and you can’t escape it. It feels like every choice you’ve made since regaining your freedom has led you back to the starting line. Uncle Ram’s Supermarket and Hardware is another prison, keeping you trapped in a vice grip because you know nowhere else will hire you. It’s Uncle Ram or the streets.