Fridays were death for Jack Spence. Forty-eight hours with no purpose or structure meant he was left on his own to feel the void that existed until Monday morning. He had forty-four hours left to go and no matter how much he drank, he could never really sleep.

At least at work he felt some sense of purpose. He didn’t say much and didn’t have any friends, but nobody gave him any shit and the boss threw some extra hours at him when he had them available.

Forty-four hours to go.

The Zippo was out of butane. Spence continued to click the hinge.

Maybe tomorrow he’d figure it out. Maybe tomorrow he’d get the jump start he needed. Maybe tomorrow. They could write that on his tombstone. Jack Spence left through the front door of the Motel 6, drove his car 8 blocks to the intersection where the Blue-line train passed every 18 minutes, parked on the tracks and waited for tomorrow.