Dan told Alicia everything. Well, almost everything.
He told her about Rooker calling him into the office at 11:30 AM, right before lunch, which was apparently when you fired people so they couldn't make a scene in front of everyone coming back from their midday break. He told her about the five-minute meeting. About the budget restrictions excuse. About Marcus escorting him out with the cardboard box.
What he didn't tell her was how small he'd felt. How he'd wanted to cry in the elevator. How he'd sat in the parking garage for two hours because he was terrified to come home and see the disappointment in her eyes.
Alicia had listened without interrupting, standing in the middle of their small living room while he talked. When he finished, she'd walked over and hugged him, and Dan had felt something break inside his chest. Not dramatically, not like in the movies. Just a quiet cracking, like ice on a pond starting to give way.
"We'll figure it out," she'd said into his shoulder. "You'll find something else. Something better."
But Dan had pulled away and gestured at the stack of bills on the kitchen table. "Alicia, look at these. Look at them. We were barely making it with my salary. And now..."
She'd looked. Electric: Past Due in red letters. Internet: Final Notice. The ER bill they'd already paid, leaving them with almost nothing. The credit card statements showing balances they could never pay off.
"Then we'll move somewhere cheaper," Alicia had said, her voice steady even though Dan could see her hands shaking slightly. "We'll do whatever we have to do. We've been through tough times before."
"Not like this."
"Yes, like this." Alicia had taken his hands in hers. "Remember when Jacob was born and I couldn't work for three months? Remember when your car died and we had to choose between fixing it and paying the electric bill? We got through it."
Dan remembered. He remembered eating ramen for two weeks straight. He remembered selling his gaming PC on Craigslist. He remembered the humiliation of borrowing money from Alicia's parents. But this felt different. This felt bigger, more permanent. Like they'd been walking a tightrope for years and someone had finally cut the rope.
They'd made plans then, sitting at the kitchen table, Jacob still in the shower oblivious to the fact that his family's life was imploding. Dan would file for unemployment on Monday. He'd update his resume. He'd start applying for jobs immediately. Alicia would take on more freelance work, maybe expand into web design in addition to graphics. They'd cut expenses everywhere they could.
"We'll be okay," Alicia kept saying, like a mantra. "We'll be okay. We'll be okay."
Dan wanted to believe her. Wanted to feel the optimism she was trying so hard to project. But all he could think about was the $148.63 in their bank account and the $3,000 worth of bills due in the next two weeks.
When Jacob emerged from the bathroom in his soccer uniform—bright blue shorts and jersey, number 14, his hair still wet and sticking up in the back—Dan had forced a smile.
"Why is Dad home early?" Jacob had asked, looking between his parents with that innocent perception kids have, sensing something was wrong even if they couldn't name it.
"I left work early so I wouldn't be late to your game," Dan had lied, the words coming easily, too easily. "Remember last time when I got stuck in traffic? I didn't want that to happen again."
Jacob had accepted this explanation without question, his face lighting up. "Cool! Can we get ice cream after?"
Dan had looked at Alicia, seeing the same calculation running through her mind: ice cream cost money. Money they didn't have. But Alicia had smiled and said, "Sure, if you score a goal."
Jacob hadn't scored a goal. His team had lost 3-1, and Jacob had spent most of the game on the bench because he was one of the younger kids and the coach rotated players. Dan and Alicia had sat on the cold metal bleachers, making small talk with the other parents, pretending everything was normal. Pretending Dan still had a job. Pretending they weren't drowning.
They were physically at the soccer game, but their minds were elsewhere. Dan kept running calculations in his head: If he found a new job in two weeks, they could make it. If it took a month, they'd have to beg for extensions on rent and bills. If it took longer than that...
He didn't let himself finish that thought.
They'd gotten ice cream anyway, because Dan couldn't bear to see the disappointment on Jacob's face. Three small cups at Dairy Queen: $11.47. Dan had paid with one of their maxed-out credit cards, watching the total go from $2,847.23 to $2,858.70.
That was Friday.
Saturday morning, Dan woke up at 5:47 AM even though he'd set no alarm. His body was used to getting up early for work, used to the routine of shower-coffee-commute that had defined his life for six years. He lay in bed for twenty minutes, listening to Alicia breathe beside him and Jacob snoring softly in the next room, before finally getting up.
He made coffee and sat at the kitchen table with his laptop, the blue screen glow—the only light in the pre-dawn apartment. He opened Indeed, LinkedIn, Glassdoor, Monster—all the job sites he'd bookmarked years ago. Back when being jobless felt temporary and adventurous rather than terrifying.
He scrolled through page after page of jobs that were either overqualified, under qualified, underpaid, or located somewhere he couldn't go. By noon, he'd found exactly three positions that might work: a web developer role at a local marketing agency, a front-end developer at a healthcare company, and a contract position at a financial services firm.
Dan applied to all three, uploading his resume and writing customized cover letters that probably sounded exactly like every other desperate unemployed developer's cover letters. He clicked submit and felt nothing. No hope, no optimism, just the hollow sense that he was throwing applications into a void.
Alicia had spent Saturday doing her own damage control. Dan could hear her in the bedroom, on the phone with her freelance clients, asking if they had any additional work.
Jacob played video games, blissfully unaware that anything was wrong. But that afternoon, he asked Dan a hard question to answer: "Why was Mom crying in the bedroom?"
Dan had gone to check on Alicia and found her sitting on their bed, laptop open, tears streaming down her face. She'd quickly wiped them away when she saw him.
"I'm fine," she'd said. "I'm fine. Just stressed."
But she wasn't fine. None of them were fine. They were drowning, and Dan didn't know how to save them.
Sunday was worse. Dan woke up with a headache that felt like someone had wrapped a steel band around his skull and was slowly tightening it. He took three ibuprofen and spent the morning applying for more jobs, each application feeling more hopeless than the last.
He also started the process of filing for unemployment insurance.
The website said he'd receive about $530 per week in unemployment benefits, assuming his claim was approved, which could take 2-4 weeks. Five hundred and thirty dollars per week. That was $2,120 per month. Their rent alone was $1,650. Add utilities, food, Jacob's soccer fees, insurance, debt payments... they'd still be going backwards.
But it was better than nothing. It was survival, even if it wasn't living.
That evening, after Jacob had gone to bed, Dan did something he'd promised himself he wouldn't do: he opened a beer. Then another. Then a third. He sat on their broken-down couch—the same couch they'd bought on Craigslist when they first got married, the cushions sagging in the middle, the upholstery stained from years of use—and tried to numb the anxiety that was eating him alive.
Around 9 PM, his phone buzzed with a text from Matt: You online? Need to talk to someone who isn't an idiot.
Dan almost didn't respond. He didn't want to talk to anyone, didn't want to pretend he was okay, didn't want to hear about DataTech or Rooker or anything related to the job he no longer had. But Matt was his best friend. His only real friend, if he was honest. They'd been through too much together for Dan to ghost him.
He grabbed another beer and turned on his PlayStation. The console took a minute to boot up—it was a PS4, several years old, but games were one of the few luxuries Dan had allowed himself over the years. He and Matt had been playing together for three years now, ever since they'd both gotten into Tom Clancy's The Division.
Dan put on his HyperX headset, logged in, and saw Matt was already online. Within seconds, Matt's voice filled his ears.
"Dude! Finally! Where have you been?"
"Here," Dan said, loading into the game. His character spawned in the Dark Zone, surrounded by other players hunting for loot. "Just... dealing with everything."
"I can't believe it, man. It's such bullshit!" Matt's voice was angry, indignant in a way that made Dan feel slightly better because at least someone else thought this was unfair. "Firing you, of all people. You practically built the company."
Dan took a swig from his beer. "Yeah, well. Budget restrictions."
"That's total bullshit," Matt said. "You know what I think? I think Rooker's been trying to get rid of both of us since he made VP. He hates us because we actually know what we're doing and that makes him feel stupid."
"Probably." Dan's character moved through the game environment, killing NPCs with mechanical precision. Headshot. Reload. Headshot. It was mindless, therapeutic. "At least he's not directly over your department since you were smart and moved to software."
"Yeah, but I'm probably next," Matt said. Dan could hear the tension in his friend's voice. Matt Henderson was thirty-one, single, lived alone in a studio apartment that cost $1,200 a month. He had student loans too, probably as much as Dan did. "I've been updating my resume just in case."
They played in silence for a few minutes, their characters moving through the game's post-apocalyptic New York, collecting loot and shooting enemies. Dan found himself tensing up every time an enemy appeared, pulling the trigger with more force than necessary, imagining each one was Rooker's smug face.
"That was excessive," Matt commented when Dan fired five rounds into an enemy player who was already dead.
"Better grab his loot," Dan replied, taking another swig of beer. The alcohol was starting to work, blurring the edges of his anxiety into something more manageable. "Everything's gone to shit since they brought Rooker in. We used to run that place like a well-oiled machine, and now it's a sinking ship."
"I know," Matt agreed. "It's not going to be the same without you there, man. People are pissed. Sarah in accounting asked me if you were okay. Even Jenkins from marketing said Rooker was out of line."
"That's nice of them," Dan said, though he felt nothing. Sarah in accounting and Jenkins in marketing weren't going to pay his rent. Their sympathy was meaningless.
They played for hours, talking intermittently about work, about Rooker, about the good old days when DataTech had been a small company where people actually cared about each other. Dan drank steadily, working through a six-pack of 303 Lager that he'd bought on sale at King Soopers for $7.99. Each beer made the world feel a little softer.
Around midnight, Matt's tone shifted. "Hey man, I know this is rough. I know you're stressed. But you're going to be okay. You're the best web developer they've ever had. Shit, between the two of us, we built that entire platform from scratch. You'll find something better."
"I hope so," Dan said, his words slightly slurred now. "I mean, I have to. The rent's going to be late. Electric and internet bills are already way overdue. I don't know what we'll do if I can't find something fast."
"You filed for unemployment, right?"
"Today. Should get approved in a couple weeks. But, it sucks applying for jobs when they ask why I left DataTech. Being fired isn't exactly what they like to hear."
"Let go due to budget restrictions," Matt said, and Dan could hear the careful phrasing, the attempt to reframe the narrative into something less shameful. "Not fired. There's a difference."
"I was fired, man," Dan said abruptly, the alcohol making him honest. "You don't have to sugarcoat it."
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then Matt spoke, his voice softer. "Look, you're going to be fine. I'm rooting for you. I believe in you. And I'm here if you need anything, okay?"
"Thanks," Dan said, and meant it. Matt was a good friend. The kind of friend who showed up when things got hard.
"I have to get off here now," Matt said. "Need to get some sleep so I can go in tomorrow and be miserable while Rooker unleashes his full wrath on me, the lowly software developer."
"Okay." Dan looked at his watch: 12:37 AM. How had it gotten so late? "Damn, I didn't realize it was past midnight. I'll talk to you later. Good luck dealing with Rooker."
"Good luck finding something better," Matt replied. "Because you will. I know you will."
After Matt logged off, Dan sat on the couch for another twenty minutes, staring blankly at the game menu screen. Six empty beer bottles sat on the coffee table. His head was buzzing pleasantly, the alcohol having done its job of dulling the panic that had been his constant companion since Friday afternoon.
He should go to bed. Should sleep next to his wife and wake up tomorrow ready to job hunt again. Should be responsible and adult and all the things a thirty-three-year-old father was supposed to be.
Instead, Dan fell asleep on the couch, the PlayStation controller still in his hand, the TV showing the game's menu screen on loop. He dreamed of parking garages and cardboard boxes and finches that wouldn't stop chirping, their high-pitched calls sounding like accusations.
When he woke up at 7:23 AM on Monday morning to Jacob's voice yelling "Dad! The internet's not working!" Dan's head was pounding and his mouth tasted like stale beer and regret.
The weekend was over. And things were about to get much, much worse.