Tony was not at work. In three weeks in Mill Creek he’d already begun and left two jobs. He sat at the corner of the bar in the White Pines Inn. The room was dingy, hazy with smoke residue from lunchtime clients from the warehouses and small mills. Most had returned to work, three older black men remained in one booth.
“Another?” The bartender wiped the counter.
“Yeah, one more.”
“Ya’rn’t workin today?”
“Naw. Lookin though.”
“Mill’s got a few openings.”
“I was there. Bout a week. Couldn’t stand it.”
“Which place?”
“Ah, you know, they’re all the same. People were fine. I just can’t work inside. I gotta find an outside job.”
“You try the little farms across Old Bridge?”
“One there. One in Hobo Hollow.”
“Nothin?”
“Nothin.”
“What about up Mill Creek Road? Up past the Old Mill. The
