I slip into an alleyway (a shortcut to my house) and halfway down something flashes in the bloom of a streetlight: wings.

After escaping the clinic where I wheezed through a pre-employment medical (push-ups, sit-ups and planks, oh my!), I hop on the number 471 bus at the ditch opposite the BP truck stop on Little Boundary Road. I’m glad to leave behind the smell of tar-seal and chicken salt from the scrunched up chip packets in the dry overgrown grass.