Endurance

Michael's Logan Square apartment is completely silent, and he is fast asleep, sprawled over his couch. Outside, a tow truck's hydraulic whine sliced through Michael's fitful sleep. He bolted upright on his couch, empty beer bottles clattering to the floor as he stumbled to the window. Through bleary eyes, he watched his car—suspended in mid-air—being hauled away into the gray December morning.

"Hey! Stop!" Michael shouted, his voice hoarse as he fumbled with the lock and burst out the door in just his sweatpants. The cold Chicago air bit at his bare chest as he ran barefoot across the parking lot's frozen asphalt.

"That's my car!" he yelled, waving his arms frantically. The tow truck driver glanced in his side mirror, hesitated for a moment, then continued driving. Michael's car—the last reliable thing in his life—disappeared around the corner.

"Fuck!" Michael slammed his palm against a nearby lamppost, the sting barely registering through his numbness. His breath formed small clouds in the frigid air as he stood there, the reality of what was happening slowly sinking in.

He trudged back toward his building, each step heavier than the last. The cold pavement numbed his bare feet, but he barely noticed. As he approached his apartment door, a bright orange paper caught his eye—an eviction notice, the bold black letters announcing "72 HOURS TO VACATE" seeming to pulse against the neon background.

Michael snatched the paper from the door, crumpling it in his fist as he pushed inside. The apartment that had once been his sanctuary now felt like a mausoleum. Empty liquor bottles lined the coffee table. Dishes were piled in the sink. The air smelled stale, like unwashed clothes and yesterday's takeout.

His phone lay on the floor where he'd dropped it days ago, the screen lighting up periodically with notifications he couldn't bring himself to check. Michael picked it up, scrolling through the dozens of missed calls and unread messages. Doug. Steven. Shelly. Becky. His mother. Even his father.

He tossed the phone onto the couch and walked to the bathroom, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. The face that stared back at him these days wasn't one he recognized anymore—hollow-eyed, unshaven, haunted by the ghosts of what might have been.

Three months ago, he'd had a fiancée. A future. A job at Cadabra that, while not glamorous, had paid the bills. Then came that video on his wedding day. The public humiliation. The heartbreak. The unplanned sex with Shelly. The drinking that followed. The missed shifts that turned into warnings, then suspension, then termination.

Michael leaned against the bathroom doorframe, sliding down until he sat on the floor. Mail was scattered across the entryway—mostly bills marked "FINAL NOTICE" and "PAST DUE." He opened another envelope from Cadabra, his final paycheck from two months ago. It hadn't been enough then, and it certainly wasn't enough now.

His gaze drifted to the framed photo lying face-down on the coffee table. He hadn't been able to look at it since that day, but he couldn't bring himself to throw it away either. The engagement photo of him and Abby, taken in Lincoln Park last summer, when everything still made sense.

The realization hit him with crushing clarity: he had officially hit rock bottom. No job. No car. No home. No Abby—though that last one, he reminded himself with bitter irony, might be the only blessing in this whole mess.

Michael pulled his knees to his chest, feeling smaller than he had since he was a child. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional ping from his neglected phone. Outside, Chicago continued its winter day, indifferent to the fact that Michael Lewis's world had just crumbled completely.