Hunter Jackson’s footsteps echoed softly on the narrow sidewalk, a crumpled sheet of paper clutched in his hand—a list of job openings torn from a public notice board. His once-fine shirt had lost its color, and the expensive leather shoes he used to wear now looked dull and cracked at the toes.

Today, he had to get a job.

Not a position worthy of a former director like himself. Just something that could earn him enough to eat, to survive.

That morning, he applied at a small café on the corner of town.

“We need a dishwasher,” the owner said bluntly. “Work starts at 3 PM, ends at midnight. Paid...