Jared Brown

Wishes do come true.

This had been the worst week of Marty Underbridge’s life. He had been knocked down and kicked in the face more in the last few days than he had in his entire 40 years of life. He had come home Monday after a particularly busy day of work, he had told a record number of people that he couldn’t approve their loans, including an old woman who needed to purchase a proper grave stone for her deceased husband. He worked at a local credit union as a loan officer, recently the credit union had put a moratorium on personal loans due to “budgetary constraints and business shifts,” whatever that meant, greed most likely. He had arrived home Monday, dog-tired, wanting nothing more than to flip on the T.V. and zone out with a scotch in his hand. One of the few pleasures in his life was purchasing and savoring top-shelf scotch and whisky, he had a small collection in his office. The minute he walked in the door, however, he knew his day was going to get worse. He saw a suitcase, packed and ready, by the stairs. His wife came down from their bedroom and gave him a look of pure distain.