Sure, there’d been a string of bad luck in the buildings lately. But that was East Harlem. He’d worked night after night, week after week, month after month to get them out of there. He wasn’t stupid. He knew that it was probably too late for Trey and one day he’d get a call that he was dead or in custody for something terrible. But Becca. She’d been through so much. He’d found a couple of houses in Queens, but that wasn’t far enough away. He considered upstate and New Jersey with that killer commute, but that wasn’t going to make it. That’s when he remembered a cousin who drove trucks out in Colorado Springs. He called him up and was told that not only was housing cheap because of the real estate crash, but that he could get him a job. “The money’s not great until you own your rig,” the cousin had said. “But once that happens, you’re rolling in it.” It meant a lot of time on the road while Becca was at home, probably looked after by his cousin’s wife, but they’d work that out.
