6:29 AM came far too quickly.
Cold air seeped in through the thin glass of the window panes above as Jo lifted his head from the floor to peer at the tiny clock on the kitchen stove. He had never needed an alarm clock; his body woke him each day at 6:29 without fail. Pausing only to wipe the sleep from his eyes, he stood from the sheets and stretched. Despite being a day away from turning 23, Jo felt like an arthritic 80-year-old. His joints creaked and popped, ribs protesting the movement, and his back felt as if someone had taken a hammer to it. Greater than the aches and pains, though, was the weariness that had settled deep in his bones. He had become so accustomed to constant exhaustion, it had become a part of him.
Walking across the cold, splintered floor, he snuck into the boys' room, tiptoeing past the sleeping brood and slipping noiselessly into the tiny bathroom. Looking longingly at the shower, he instead turned to the sink. A daily shower was a luxury he could not afford; the water bill needed to stay low to ensure he could pay it each month, and beside that, he didn't have time in the mornings. No, a wash rag, a bar of soap, and the frigid sink water were more than enough to get the job done. Showers were for Sunday's and special occasions.
He caught a glimpse of his face in the cracked mirror and the sight stilled him. He generally tried not to look at his face, and the few times he did were jarring. A constant reminder. A map of his past. His eyes roamed over the various scars and marks, following the path they lead down to the heavy scarring on his chest and arms. Snapping his gaze back, he stared the gaunt, weary face looking back at him.
Hideous.
Shaking his head from an instant barrage of deprecating words, he went to work, trying to straighten his unkempt form into something that was passable as a living creature. Finally, pulling on his worn jeans and tugging a torn, long sleeved T-shirt over his damp hair, he glanced at the cheap watch on his wrist.
6:36. He was behind schedule.
—————
When the oatmeal had finished cooking and had been spooned into 5 separate bowls, Jo went to wake the boys. Stopping to kiss each on their forehead, he pulled back the covers, ignoring the protests and grumbles. After a bit of coaxing, 5 sleepy forms shuffled out of the room and to their places at the table.
"Sam, pass the milk."
"Jo, is Mikey old enough to pour his own milk?"
"I'm not a little kid! I can pour my own milk!"
"7 is still a little kid."
"Boys."
The bickering children quieted at Jo's tone. He didn't usually need to elaborate.
"Sam, pass Mikey the milk. He won't spill it. Will you, Mikey?"
Mikey shook his head and the kitchen was once again filled with the sound of spoons clinking bowls. Jo went back to washing the oatmeal pan.
"Aren't you gonna eat, Jo?" asked Drew tentatively.
"Already did."
It wasn't a lie. He had eaten the crusted remains scraped from the bottom and sides of the pan. Misleadingly vague, yes, but not a lie.
The complete truth was that the money was running out. The repurposed peanut butter jar in the back of the top cupboard held the meager remains of his last paycheck, depleted quicker this month from a middle school field trip and a lost textbook. In order to stretch his last few dollars until payday, he had been skipping meals, trying to ensure the boys had enough to eat until they could afford to restock their dwindling supplies.
Glancing and his watch, Jo opened his mouth to give the order to prep for school, when his stomach chose that exact moment to grumble loudly. All 5 heads looked up from the table. Seeing that Drew was about to call his bluff, Jo painted a shocked expression on his face.
"Jaime! Didn't you get all your farts out last night?"
The boys burst into laughter and teasingly attacked Jaime about his sleeping habits, successfully transferring the focus from Jo. Gathering up the bowls, he shooed the giggling boys from the kitchen.
"Hurry up and get dressed for school. You have 10 minutes. Sam, help Adam pick out his clothes, please."
"I can do it myself," came Adam's indignant cry.
"Yesterday, you put your jeans on backwards. How is that even comfortable..." Sams voice became muffled behind the door.
Jo ran his hand over his face, trying to wipe away the ever present tiredness. 7:13. They were definitely behind schedule.
After scrubbing the breakfast dishes, washing the table, breaking up a scuffle between Sam and Adam, and finding all 5 coats, backpacks, and missing homework assignments, the group finally exited the apartment.
The air was chillier than usual for October and the broken down buildings of the inner city did little block the gusts of wind. It was a 10 minute walk to the elementary school and an extra 5 minutes to the middle school. The last children were dropped off with hugs and promises to be good at 7:48.
Jo ran the 2 miles to his job site.
8:03
"You're late, Atwood."
"Sorry, sir. I'll stay late to make up for it."
"Don't let it become a habit, kid."
"No sir."
The foreman sighed. "I need you on demo today. Go join Pete's team for the morning. I might move you this afternoon."
"Yes sir."
Jo hurried to join the bustling crew, acknowledging the nods and greetings of his fellow laborers. Jobs were assigned, equipment gathered, and Jo fell into the comfortable rhythm of his work. Focusing on the task at hand, it was impossible to pay any attention to the disparaging voice inside his head, reminding him what a failure he was.