Relocation is never an easy decision, especially for Mort Avery, who was thirty-five years old and the latest victim of corporate downsizing. He had devoted the past six years to the Rite-Brand production plant in Kinsley; but with the failing economy and a lack of productivity within the company, he had been let go, tossed out like yesterday’s garbage.
Mort wiped a puddle of sweat from his forehead and glanced over at Emily, his wife. Emily was a homemaker. She had worked as a waitress in a small pizza parlor before she and Mort were married, but four months after the honeymoon, Mort insisted that Emily stay home and take care of the house. He had old-fashioned values; and even though money was tight, Mort felt that his wife would be more comfortable in the home. Emily disagreed, however, but usually remained silent whenever Mort brought it up.
She sighed unhappily, shifting in her seat and watching the rolling countryside outside her window. Then she turned and looked at her husband and smiled. Her eyes were slightly red. Being cramped in the car for several hours with nothing to do was tiresome.
They passed a sign that read, Brockton 2 miles.
“Don't worry. We're almost there,” said Mort.
Emily nodded, still smiling. She caressed the back of Mort's neck and kissed him gently.
Mort slowed the car and scanned the road ahead. There was a light-brown, thirteen foot, stone archway ahead of them, with a recessed keystone at the top. Engraved on the keystone was City of Brockton.
What a relief, he thought. After five hours on the road, they had nearly finished the move from Kinsley.
They passed through the archway and large, beautiful houses replaced the surrounding trees. Mort didn’t take much notice; his mind recalled the morning his entire world came crashing down all around him.
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