The Detroit winter was bone-chillingly cold.
Jack Mercer tossed the last log into the fireplace.
Flames licked at the dry wood, crackling, but they did little to raise the temperature in the room.
The cold wind whistling through the cracks in the window cut at their skin like a razor blade.
He sat on the floor, clutching a pink notice in his hand.
It was the landlord's final ultimatum.
Three days.
If he couldn't pay the back rent in three days, he, his wife Susan, and their six-year-old son, Timmy, would be thrown out onto the street.
Jack was a machinist.
He had worked at a Ford parts factory for fifteen years.
He thought he would be like his father, working on the assembly line until he retired, then taking his pension and going fishing in Florida.
But six months ago, the factory shut down.
The boss said it was an "industrial upgrade." He was moving the production line to Mexico.
