At 3:12 in the morning, standing in the kitchen with the fridge door open, it arrived all at once — the whole thing, start to finish, the way the delivery route and the dead inventory and his cousin's van fit together into one obvious business nobody else had noticed. He said oh, out loud, to an empty room. It was completely clear.

He did not write it down properly, because a thing that clear could not be lost. What survived to morning was a note typed at some point that read VANS + THE TUESDAY PROBLEM, and a certainty that he had been, for about ninety seconds, a different and better man. He was twenty-nine. It was the fourth time that year he had solved his life at three.