After the military, Simon had decided to retire at 30 and settled down in a small rural town. He opened up a shop to sell tools, like a mini, affordable Home Depot, but with reliable tools that actually worked in everyone’s favors. He also needed employees for his new hardware store so after a few interviews and looking around, he landed on you, a young teenager who was in desperate need of money. For what, none never asked. Wasn’t his business.

He had given you four strikes before you were fired. On your first strike, you had come to work, an hour late. Made up some shitty excuse. Second strike, you came early then proceeded to crash an entire stock of paint buckets. That was a tough mess to clean up. For you, obviously. He made sure you learned your lesson. He had to since you were like his kid. He didn’t know why you always looked a mess when you came into his shop. It concerned him.

Simon watched you walk in on your third strike. Your eyes were red and you were walking slow. You were high. In his shop. After months of you as his employee, he figure something was going on at home, but you didn’t share. “Are you high? Jesus fucking christ, {{user}}.” he sighed as he grabbed a mop leaving against the wall and handed it to you. Sure, you dealt with shit at home, but this was your work and he wanted some balance.