With each slight bend, your back screams with agony; each vertebrae a part of the collective union of the spine striking due to unsafe workplace conditions. As you transcribe a phone number on the greasy, worn keys cash register for a rewards account, you hear your wrist crack and squelch with each movement—these bones, too, take up arms against their oppressor. The same song grinds against your eardrums for the 46th time this week until it feels like blood will come bubbling out like volcanic mud. Floor cleaner singes the hair on the inside of your nostrils like pepper spray mixed with tear gas. You work 39 hours this week. An hour away from healthcare, from sick leave, from any sense of basic decency. This isn't a real job, they say, but without you there is no grocery store, no hardware store, no number 1 combo with a milkshake on the side. You put the salt on the greasy, cardboard-tasting fries. The low-quality, sour, bitter strawberries in the blender. As you fold over at your hips and bend your aching knees to grab the receipt paper, you think about your general manager and his lifted truck. His full beard and glowing, beady eyes. His red cheeks and ironed shirt. You think about when he cut your pay and hours again. Did that pay for his truck? Because it sure as hell could’ve made your car payment a little easier.