On the morning Ricky Martinez finally walked out of county jail, the Los Angeles sun hit him so hard it felt like the entire United States was staring straight at him, waiting to see if he’d mess up again.

The air outside the courthouse smelled like exhaust and hot concrete. Cars rolled by, people checked their phones, a bus wheezed at the light. Just another weekday in Southern California. But to Ricky, with the weight of the ankle monitor still fresh on his skin and the echo of the judge’s voice in his head, it felt like the world had shifted half an inch off its axis.

“Beto, there goes our guy,” one of the officers said, nudging the other as Ricky stepped out in the same faded hoodie he’d worn the night he got arrested. “Martinez. He made bail.”

“Let’s roll, Ricky,” the public defender muttered, tapping his clipboard. “Your ride’s here.”

Ricky squinted toward the parking lot and saw her—Angel—standing beside a beat-up sedan with mismatched doors, hugging herself against the wind.

“Oh my gosh,” he exhaled, shoulders dropping with relief. “Babe, I can’t believe you bailed me out. Angel, you’re a lifesaver.”

She didn’t smile.

“I wasn’t the one who bailed you out,” she said quietly.

He blinked. “What?”

The public defender shoved a packet of papers into his hand. “You got lucky, Martinez. Real lucky. The judge could’ve buried you. Motor vehicle theft and possession of illegal substances is no joke. But you’re young. He’s giving you four weeks of community service. No jail time. For now.”

Ricky’s jaw tightened. “Four weeks,” he muttered.

“You screw this up,” the attorney went on, “they won’t be this generous again. Do whatever the probation officer tells you. You hear me?”

Ricky nodded, barely listening. His eyes were on Angel, on the way she wouldn’t quite look at him, like he was a TV left on in the background.

“You better get your life together,” one of the officers added, no warmth in his tone. “Unless you want to be a delinquent kid with no future for the rest of your life.”

“I have a future,” Ricky shot back automatically.

“Sure you do,” the officer said dryly. “You can’t even tie a tie correctly. You are hopeless. You’ll never amount to anything.”

The words dug under Ricky’s skin, in the same raw places his father’s voice lived. You’ll never be like your brother. You’re wasting your life. You’re good for nothing.

“Come on,” Angel said, opening the car door. “Get in.”

Four weeks of community service felt like four years. Picking up trash along the freeway. Sweeping floors at the rec center. Painting over graffiti in neighborhoods that smelled like his childhood and his mistakes.

“You’re so lucky you just got community service,” one of the other guys grumbled, scrubbing paint off a wall. “Could’ve been worse.”

“I’d rather they threw me back in jail,” Ricky muttered. “At least in there my dad’s not lecturing me twenty-four-seven.”

“You still thinking about going back to the streets after this?” the guy asked.

Ricky shrugged. “You have any idea how much money I’m missing out on right now? Clients don’t wait forever.”

The guy shook his head. “It’s time to think about a real job. A real future. You can’t hustle forever, man.”

“What other choice do I have?” Ricky said. “I’m just another dropout with nothing on his résumé.”

“There is somebody else’s future you gotta start thinking about too, you know,” the guy said.

“What are you talking about?” Ricky frowned.

He found out that night.

Angel sat on the edge of their worn-out couch, hands twisted together, eyes shiny.

“Ricky,” she whispered. “We’re going to be parents.”

For a second, the room went quiet. The fridge hummed. A neighbor’s TV bled through the thin wall, some commentator yelling about an NFL game. Somewhere, a siren wailed a few blocks over.

“We’re… what?” Ricky said.

“Parents,” she repeated. “We need to do better. For a kid. For our kid.”

He felt something shift inside him—like the floor had dropped and a new one appeared beneath it. He thought of the judge, the officer, his father, all their voices merging into a chorus of You’ll never be anything. And then he thought of a tiny person with his eyes or her smile, growing up in a world where every decision Ricky made would either protect them or ruin them.

A real future. Not just for him now.

Two years later, the apartment smelled like coffee, damp towels, and fried eggs. The walls were still thin, the paint still peeling, but the baby was now a kid—seven-year-old Danny—with a soccer ball permanently tangled in his feet and too much hope in his eyes.

Ricky stood in front of the open fridge, poking at the busted light cover with a butter knife.

“Ricky, stop messing with the fridge,” Angel said, pulling on her diner uniform, her name tag crooked on her chest. “You’re going to let all the cold air out.”

“No worries,” he said. “I’m gonna fix this thing. Watch.”

“Miho, get your butt out here, you’re going to be late!” she yelled toward the hallway.

“I’m coming!” Danny called back. “The water wasn’t coming out of the showerhead again. I had to wait.”

Angel sighed. “Can’t we get a handyman to fix all this?” she asked. “The shower, the fridge, the door that sticks… Everything’s falling apart.”

“You know we don’t have the money for that,” Ricky said. “Besides, who needs a handyman when you’ve got a handy mom?” He winked, then tapped the fridge. “And a slightly clueless dad.”

She smirked despite herself. “You mean handy dad,” she said.

“Exactly,” he said. “See? I’ll fix it. After all, we’re the ones always talking about saving money. This is how you do it, right? DIY or die trying.”

“I’m going to have to clean out the fridge as soon as I get off work,” she muttered. “The food’s going to spoil.”

“We can just have dinner at your dad’s,” Ricky suggested without thinking.

Her whole body stiffened. “No,” she said sharply. “I don’t want to owe him anything.”

“I didn’t say owe him,” Ricky said. “Just… dinner.”

“I don’t have time to argue with you,” she snapped, grabbing her purse. “I’m running late and I still need to drop Danny off at school. Just call him for us later, okay? Please.”

Ricky bit back a response and nodded. “Okay. Have a good day.”

“Love you,” she said, already halfway out the door.

“Love you too,” he murmured.

That night, they sat at Angel’s father’s table in a small house a few miles away, a game from the MLS playing low on the TV in the background. The food was good—too good. Ricky hated how grateful his stomach felt and how resentful his pride did.

“The food’s great,” Angel said. “Thanks for having us over.”

“Somebody’s got to make sure you and my grandson are being fed,” her father, Carlos, said, taking a long drink of his iced tea. “I didn’t realize dinner came with a side of passive aggression,” Ricky muttered under his breath.

“I think you mean ‘thank you,’” Carlos said smoothly. “How’s the job search going, Ricky?”

Here we go, Ricky thought.

“It’s… going,” he said carefully. “I’ve put in applications. Few interviews. It’s just… hard out there.”

“What kind of man can’t provide for his own family?” Carlos said, stabbing his fork into a piece of chicken. “You got your poor wife working doubles at that diner while you sit at home playing handyman with a broken fridge.”

“I’m not a bum,” Ricky snapped. “I’ve been looking. But nobody wants to hire a high school dropout with a record. I’m working on it.”

“Sure,” Carlos said. “I don’t believe you. I never had these issues with Manuel. He was valedictorian, remember? Full ride from Harvard. He was going to do something with his life.”

Angel tensed. Ricky stared at the table.

“Your brother had potential,” Carlos went on. “You? You just had problems. And look at you now. Exactly where I expected. No degree. No job. No plan.”

“Enough,” Angel said sharply. “Dad.”

Carlos sighed loudly. “You can’t save money if you’re not making any money,” he muttered. “You’re living in that little apartment like you’re still kids. Grow up.”

The words stacked on Ricky’s shoulders, old and heavy and familiar. He chewed in silence, every bite tasting like failure.

The next morning, as the sun slid between the blinds and lit up the dust in their living room, Angel pressed a stack of résumés into Ricky’s hands.

“I printed ten,” she said. “Somebody is going to hire you. You hear me?”

He avoided her eyes. “What if they don’t?”

“What do I always say?” she asked.

He sighed. “You need to believe in yourself before others can believe in you.”

“Exactly,” she said. “Now go.”

At the first café, the barista glanced at his application and shrugged. “Sorry. We’re not hiring.”

“There’s literally a sign in the window,” Ricky said, pointing. “Help wanted. Baristas needed.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the barista said, suddenly very interested in the espresso machine.

At the second place, they told him they’d “lost” his application. At the third, they asked if he had any “experience in a professional environment.”

“I’ve mopped more floors than you’ve ever seen,” he muttered as he walked back to the bus stop.

By lunchtime, he was ready to go home, crawl under the covers, and pretend he was still the old Ricky—the one who never tried for anything legal, so he never had to face rejection when it didn’t work.

He was halfway down the sidewalk when he heard a familiar voice.

“Ricky? Ricky Martinez?”

He turned.

“Beto?” he said, squinting. “No way.”

They hugged, slapping each other’s backs.

“What you been up to, man?” Ricky asked.

“Working,” Beto said. “My mom… she’s not doing too good. Doctor visits, meds, you know how it is. I gotta take care of her. Janitor gig at CrispWave.”

“The chip company?” Ricky asked. “Like the ones in all the stores?”

“Yeah,” Beto grinned. “Warehouse off the freeway. It’s not glamorous, but it’s steady. What about you?”

“Just trying to find a job,” Ricky said. “Our place is falling apart, bills piling up, and my girl’s dad won’t let me forget it for even a second.”

“You should come work with me,” Beto said suddenly. “They’re always hiring janitors. I’ll put in a word.”

Ricky hesitated. “I mean, it’s just a janitor position…”

“So?” Beto cut in. “Steady paycheck. Benefits. Free chips.”

Ricky laughed. “All right,” he said. “I’ll take it.”

“Good,” Beto said, scribbling the manager’s name and address on the back of one of Ricky’s résumés. “Welcome to the bottom of the corporate food chain, my man.”

The CrispWave plant was louder than Ricky expected. Conveyor belts rattled. Machines hummed. The air smelled like salt, oil, and something vaguely cheesy. Posters of smiling families holding bags of chips hung in the hallway, all bright colors and fake laughter.

“And this,” Beto said, sweeping his arm around a small office where people tapped on keyboards and stared at screens, “is where they do all the emails and graphic design and whatever. Honestly, I don’t even care enough to know. This is the world where they decide what’s on the bag. We live in the world where we pick up the bags they drop.”

“I’m just looking,” Ricky said, peering in through the glass. He’d never seen so many computers in one room outside of a movie.

“If you’re looking for cleaning supplies, you won’t find them on the screen,” a sharp voice snapped behind them.

They turned.

Liam stood there in a pressed shirt, a clipboard, and an expression that said he was perpetually disappointed with the world. He was the kind of man who looked like his hair had never met the wind and his shoes had never met a stain.

“Anything they’re doing in there,” Liam said, jerking his chin toward the office, “is about three floors above your pay grade. Keep your eyes on the floors that need mopping and the trash that needs taking out. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Ricky said.

“And wipe that look off your face,” Liam added. “You’re lucky we even hired you, Martinez. I read your file.”

Beto cleared his throat. “It’s Ricky’s first day,” he said. “He’s just learning.”

“Well, let’s hope he’s a fast learner,” Liam said. “But judging by the looks of it, I highly doubt that’s the case.”

He moved away, and Beto leaned closer.

“Unfortunately, that’s the manager,” he whispered. “And that over there—” he nodded toward a tall man in a suit walking through the plant, everyone straightening as he passed— “that’s the CEO. Russell Emerson. Liam won’t even let us breathe the same air as him if he can help it. There’s a hierarchy here, and we’re at the bottom. Get used to being invisible.”

Ricky watched the CEO shake hands with a supervisor, laugh at something, and move on.

“I didn’t come here to be seen,” Ricky said quietly. “I came here to work. I’m going to be the best janitor this place has ever had.”

“No offense,” Beto said, grinning. “For real though. If you want that paycheck, just work hard and stay out of the way.”

“Show me where to clean first,” Ricky said, grabbing the mop.

Weeks rolled by. Ricky scrubbed break rooms, polished hallways, emptied trash. He got good at working in the background, sliding his cart through the plant while the machines screamed and the workers shouted to be heard over the noise.

Then came the day everyone got called into the main area.

“Any idea what’s going on?” Ricky asked Beto as they followed the rest of the employees toward a makeshift stage.

“All I know is the CEO called the meeting himself,” Beto said. “That’s either really good or really bad.”

Russell Emerson stepped up to the mic, the hum of the plant dying to an expectant hush.

“I want to start by thanking each and every one of you,” he said, voice steady, professional with just enough warmth to sound real. “Your hard work is the backbone of this company. Unfortunately, we’ve experienced a drop in sales ever since our competitor released their new chip flavor…”

There was a collective murmur. Everyone knew who he meant—one of the giant snack brands that had plastered its fiery new flavor all over TV during the Super Bowl.

“…and it’s forced us to make some very tough decisions,” Russell continued. “We have to reduce our workforce.”

The words cut through the room like a blade.

He listed the departments. Liam stepped up and read out names. Functions. Lives.

“If your name is called,” Liam said, “today will be your last day. Please pick up your final paycheck on the way out. For those whose names weren’t called, I suggest you start looking for employment elsewhere. With the way things are going, we won’t be far behind.”

Beto’s name was on the list.

Ricky’s wasn’t.

“You’re keeping me and firing him?” Ricky said later, numb, watching Beto pack his few locker items into a grocery bag.

“That’s how it goes,” Beto shrugged. “Don’t get attached to jobs or bosses. Just keep moving. You… keep your head down. You got a kid. You need this.”

“I love this job,” Ricky said softly. “I mean, it’s the first time I’ve ever had something steady. I feel like I’m actually helping, you know? Even if it’s just keeping the factory clean. Now it might all go away.”

“Unless someone comes up with a chip flavor that beats whatever they got out there,” Beto said, half-joking. “You gonna invent something, Ricky?”

“I’m not a chef,” Ricky laughed without humor. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

He found out where to start in his own kitchen.

The fridge half-worked. The cabinet door hung crooked. But the spice shelf? That was full. Paprika. Chili powder. Dried peppers his mother had mailed from Texas. Angel moved around the cramped space like she was dancing, grabbing ingredients, frying tortillas in a little oil to make homemade chips when they couldn’t afford brand-name bags.

“Try this,” she said one night, holding out a chip dripping with red seasoning.

He bit down and his whole mouth exploded.

“It burns,” he gasped.

She looked crushed.

“In a good way,” he coughed. “It burns in a good way. Like… like how hot wings burn. You’re sweating, but you can’t stop eating.”

Her eyes brightened. “It’s good?”

“It’s incredible,” he said. “What did you put on it?”

“Dried chili, lime powder, a little sugar,” she said. “Why?”

Ricky stared at the chip in his hand—the color, the smell, the way it hit every taste bud like fireworks.

“What if…” he murmured. “What if this isn’t just for us?”

The next day, during his break, he found Liam near the break room, scrolling through his phone.

“Liam,” Ricky said, clutching a small plastic container like it was a grenade. “Can I talk to you?”

“You have thirty seconds,” Liam said without looking up. “I’m very busy.”

“I have something that could help the company,” Ricky said. “It’s a new chip flavor. My wife and I came up with a recipe last night. If… if you could give it to Mr. Emerson—”

Liam laughed. Actually laughed. “Do you really think,” he said, staring now, “that the CEO of this company is going to listen to a janitor?”

Ricky’s face burned. “I’m just asking you to give it to him,” he said. “He doesn’t have to know it’s from me.”

“You’re lucky we let you sweep the floors we walk on,” Liam sneered. “I read your file. You’re a high school dropout with a history of bad decisions. Do yourself a favor and stop wasting time thinking you’re more than that. Now don’t you have trash to take out?”

He walked away.

Ricky stood there with the container in his hand, shame clawing up his throat.

That night, he dropped the plastic tub on the counter.

“How’d it go?” Angel asked gently.

“He didn’t even taste it,” Ricky said. “He didn’t even look at it. I never got to give it to the CEO. He told me to go unclog toilets.”

He sank into a chair.

“I was stupid for thinking my idea could save anything,” he muttered. “No one’s going to take me seriously. Why should they? I’m a nobody with nothing to my name. My own father told me I’d never amount to anything. He was right.”

Angel sat across from him, eyes steady.

“Don’t you dare say that,” she said quietly.

He looked away, but the memories came anyway.

He saw his father’s face, younger but already hard, sitting at a worn kitchen table in East L.A., repeating the same lines.

“Ever since I was a little boy, I knew I’d never be good enough for him,” Ricky said. “My older brother, Manuel—straight-A student, star of the high school soccer team. Dad’s pride and joy.”

He remembered Manuel in his Harvard sweatshirt, smiling for the camera, acceptance letter in hand, his father’s arm slung proudly around his shoulders.

“And me?” Ricky went on. “I struggled. If I brought home bad grades—and I did, a lot—Dad would yell. Tell me I was lazy. Hopeless. He’d send me to bed without dinner. He tried me in sports. Thought maybe if I didn’t have brains, I had strength. But I wasn’t any good at that either. Couldn’t even kick a soccer ball right. I can still see his face when I tripped over my own feet in front of everyone.”

He remembered the sigh. The head shake. The muttered, “At least I still have Manuel.”

“Manuel was good at everything,” Ricky said. “He got the full ride to Harvard. The scouts. The letters. Then… he got sick. Real sick. It happened so fast. One day we’re talking about him going to the East Coast, the next day we’re talking about treatments. He never even made it out of California.”

His throat closed.

“His death broke my dad,” Ricky whispered. “And I swear to you, I could see it in his eyes. If someone had to go, he wished it was me. What good was I? I couldn’t be him. I couldn’t fill that space. So I stopped trying. I started selling on the streets. It was the one thing I was good at. Until I messed that up too.”

He saw the flashing lights, the handcuffs, the judge’s gavel.

“So you see,” he said, voice low, “every step of the way, I’ve proven my dad right. I never amounted to anything. Why would this be any different?”

Angel leaned forward, grabbing his hands.

“Because you’re not that kid anymore,” she said. “You’ve been trying for real now. Our food isn’t spoiling because you figured out how to fix the fridge instead of waiting for a miracle repairman. The water comes out of the shower because you watched ten different videos until you understood how to fix the pipes. You’ve been saving this family money with your own two hands. You showed up for that job every day. You came up with a chip flavor that made my eyes water and my heart dance at the same time. That’s not nothing.”

He stared at her.

“You keep letting your father’s voice live in your head,” she said. “But he’s not here paying our bills. He’s not here raising this kid. You are. What do I always say?”

He swallowed. “You need to believe in yourself before others can believe in you.”

“Exactly,” she said. “I believe in you. Beto believes in you. Danny believes in you. Now the rest is up to you.”

The next morning, Ricky didn’t go straight to the janitor’s closet. He walked past it, past Liam, past the break room.

“Hey!” Liam snapped. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Ricky kept walking.

The CEO’s office door was slightly ajar. Ricky heard a voice inside.

“Yes, business hasn’t been strong this quarter,” Russell was saying into the phone. “But we’re working on it. We’ll get back on track. No, we’re not shutting down. Not yet.”

Ricky knocked.

“Just a minute,” Russell said. “I’m on a—”

“I’m sorry,” Ricky blurted, stepping inside. “Mr. Emerson, I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I really need sixty seconds of your time.”

Russell looked up, eyebrows raised. “Can I call you back?” he said into the phone. “Something just came up.”

He hung up.

“I know you,” he said slowly. “You’re one of the custodial team, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Ricky said. “Ricky. I’m sorry if I’m out of line. I just—if I don’t say this, I’m going to regret it forever.”

“Go on,” Russell said. “I’m listening.”

Behind him, Liam appeared in the doorway, face flushed.

“Mr. Emerson, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I told him he’s not allowed back here. I’ll have him out—”

“It’s okay,” Russell said. “Let him speak.”

Liam bristled, then fell silent.

Ricky’s hands shook as he opened the container.

“It’s a spicy chip,” he said. “My wife and I made the seasoning together. We’re Mexican-American—we love spice and we love snacks. So we thought, why not put them together? It’s hot, but not so hot you can’t stop eating.”

He held out a single chip.

Russell stared at it for a moment. Then he took it.

He bit.

His eyes widened.

“That’s… interesting,” he said. He took another bite. “It burns.”

“I know,” Ricky said quickly. “But like a good burn, right?”

Russell chewed thoughtfully.

“What do you think, Liam?” he asked.

Liam hesitated, then took a chip himself. For a second, his expression was pure annoyance. Then his eyes flickered.

“It’s… good,” he admitted grudgingly. “It’s really good.”

“I think we’ve got something here,” Russell said, looking at Ricky. “You came up with this?”

“With my wife,” Ricky said. “Angel. We’ve been experimenting at home trying to save money on snacks. So we started making our own and… this came out of it.”

Russell chuckled. “Saving money to save the family, huh?” he said. “You know how many board meetings I’ve sat in where people with master’s degrees couldn’t come up with a single fresh idea? And you bring this to me in a plastic container.”

“I know I’m just a janitor,” Ricky said. “I’m a dropout with a record. I get it. I just… I really love this company. It was the first place that made me feel like I could be part of something legal and good. I don’t want to lose it.”

Russell leaned back, still chewing. “You’re not ‘just’ anything,” he said. “You’re an employee with initiative. This flavor has potential. We’d need to tweak it for mass production, test it, run it through R&D. But if it works…”

He smiled.

“We might be able to turn this around,” he said. “Thank you for bringing it to me.”

Ricky’s chest felt too tight for his lungs.

“Really?” he said.

“Really,” Russell said. “Now go back to work before Liam has a meltdown. I’ve got calls to make.”

Three months later, CrispWave’s “Burning Hot” flavor hit the shelves in grocery stores from California to New York. The bag exploded with fiery graphics and slogans. Social media ran with it—people filming themselves trying the chips, fanning their mouths, laughing and going back for more.

Sales climbed. Higher than before.

One morning, as Ricky was wiping down a vending machine in the lobby, Beto walked in wearing his old uniform.

“What are you doing here?” Ricky asked, grinning.

“They offered me my job back,” Beto said. “Apparently the company’s doing better than ever after they released some burning hot chip. Don’t know who came up with that idea, but I owe them a lunch.”

Before Ricky could respond, Russell appeared beside him.

“I was very impressed with your initiative,” he said to Ricky. “You believed in your idea, even when people told you you were nothing. That kind of courage is rare.”

Liam hovered nearby, looking like he’d swallowed a lemon.

“And that reminds me,” Russell said. “Liam, don’t you have something to say to Ricky?”

Liam cleared his throat. “It was wrong… the way I treated you,” he forced out. “I was wrong.”

Russell raised an eyebrow.

“And?” he prompted.

“And…” Liam sighed. “I’m going to be… reporting to you. Ricky is our new Chief Operating Officer.”

The words barely made sense as they entered the air.

“No,” Ricky said immediately. “You—you can’t just make some janitor the COO. That’s insane. I didn’t even finish high school.”

“I can if he’s the one who saved the company,” Russell said. “You’ll get training. Guidance. But you have something no degree can buy—heart, and the willingness to learn. You deserve this. You have a bright future ahead of you, Ricky. Congratulations.”

Ricky swallowed hard.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

“Actually,” Russell said, “I think I do.”

A few weeks later, Ricky stood in front of a mirror in his own office—his office—trying to tie a tie.

He fumbled with it for the tenth time, muttering under his breath, when a voice came from the doorway.

“Bro,” his father said. “It’s nice to see you finally learned how to tie a tie.”

Ricky turned.

His father looked older. The sharp edges had dulled. There were lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before. But the pride—real pride—shone clear.

“This new job kind of forced me to figure it out,” Ricky said, fingers finally getting the knot right. “So… what do you think?”

His father stepped into the office, eyes sweeping over the desk, the window view of the plant, the framed photo of Angel and Danny on the shelf.

“I am happy for you,” he said. “More than I can say. I know I didn’t make it easy. I pushed you. I… hurt you. But look at you now. You’re the COO of a big American company, with your own office, your own staff. You really turned your life around.”

Ricky’s chest tightened. “Thank you,” he said softly. “I wanted you to see. Not to prove you wrong. Just to show you that… I’m not hopeless.”

His father nodded. “You proved yourself right,” he said. “That’s what matters.”

“Dad!” Danny burst into the room, nearly slipping on the polished floor. “Guess what?”

“What?” Ricky asked, catching him before he collided with the desk.

“I made the soccer team,” Danny said, practically vibrating. “Even better—I’m the captain.”

Ricky laughed, lifting him up. “Captain, huh?” he said. “That’s my boy.”

He glanced at his father.

“Thanks for reminding me,” he added.

“Reminding you of what?” his father asked.

“The best advice I ever got,” Ricky said. “You have to believe in yourself before others can believe in you.”

His father smiled—really smiled—for the first time in years.

“Looks like you finally did,” he said.

Outside the office window, the factory hummed. Machines clattered. People worked. On shelves across America, families tossed “Burning Hot” chips into shopping carts without ever knowing the flavor had started with a broken fridge, a tight budget, and a man who finally decided he was worth more than his worst mistakes.

Ricky straightened his tie, held his son a little closer, and stepped into the hallway, ready for whatever came next.