Chapter 1: The Burnt Coffee Blues

When I went to claim my travel reimbursements, the finance department didn’t even look up before tossing my receipts right back at me.

The break room’s microwave dinged, filling the air with the smell of burnt Folgers. I stood at the counter, receipts fluttering in my hand, feeling like a kid sent to the principal’s office for reasons he didn’t understand.

“Sorry, new rule—if you’re in a big city, hotel’s gotta be under fifteen bucks a night, meals under three. You went over.”

The words hit me like a brick. I could hear the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as I blinked, trying to process what I’d just heard. $15 a night? Was this the 1960s? I tried to swallow my disbelief, but my hands started to shake.

“Come on, I went to Chicago! Even a budget place like Motel 6 is at least $50 a night. With $15, do you expect me to sleep in my car?”

I tried to keep my voice level, but frustration crept in. Memories of shivering in the back seat of my Ford Focus flashed through my mind—no way was that reasonable. I could almost taste the stale gas station donuts I’d been surviving on.

“That’s not my problem. It’s what the boss said.”

She didn’t even blink, just shuffled some paperwork and gave me a look that said, take it up with someone who cares. I felt my face heating up, embarrassment warring with anger.

I stared at the stack of receipts in my hand—almost $7,000, about half a year’s salary I’d fronted myself. I’d only managed by maxing out my credit card. If I couldn’t get reimbursed, I wouldn’t even have money for groceries.

The reality of it hit me hard—a year’s worth of brown-bag lunches and holding off on buying a new pair of work shoes, all wiped out by someone’s arbitrary rule. My heart pounded as I clutched the receipts, knuckles white.

Thinking about everything I’d done for the company, I went to the boss, still clinging to a sliver of hope. But he shut me down immediately:

“I’ve already said, it’s the rule. There’s no point coming to me.”

He barely glanced away from a live Cubs game streaming on his laptop. I stood in his doorway, one foot over the threshold, feeling every bit the unwanted guest. Hope drained out of me as quickly as the Chicago wind whips down Michigan Avenue.