Levin spent most of his days in the car, scrolling through job sites. He still had his phone, though the screen was cracked and the charging port only worked at certain angles. He kept a power bank topped up from the sockets at the YMCA gym — shower, shave, plug in, walk out like it was normal.
His CV hadn’t changed in years.
The layout was dated. The “Key Skills” section still included words like detail-oriented and team player.
But he applied anyway.
Customer service. Admin assistant. Stockroom. Even driving jobs — though he was starting to ration petrol.
Every morning, he'd refresh his inbox. Every day, a new wave of the same corporate phrasing:
“We regret to inform you.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Despite your experience.”
Most didn’t even bother with that. Just silence. Just the no you had to figure out yourself.
He went back to the old bedsit once. Not because he missed it — but just in case a job offer had come by post. He stood outside the front door longer than he meant to, then rang the bell. The new tenant — mid-20s, trackies, wary eyes — opened without a word. Levin explained. Quickly. Respectfully. Just checking for any missed letters. Nothing more. The man didn’t speak. Just stared at him with a half-step forward that made the message clear:
“You don’t live here anymore.”
Levin nodded and left without looking back.
He tried for help.
Called three charities.
Two said they’d “review capacity” and call him back. They didn’t.
The third suggested filling out a web form he could barely navigate on his phone.
He went to a halfway home near the canal. It looked rough but stable — like it could hold a roof over your head, even if it leaked a little. He explained his situation to a man at the door. Shaved head. Clipboard. Voice like callused hands.
“So… you’re in your car, yeah?” the man said.
“Yeah. Just… for now. Until I can get something again.”
“Mate, honestly? That’s not the worst. Loads of people doing that now. Get yourself a high-tog sleeping bag and you’re golden.”
Golden.
Levin said thank you, turned around, and walked off.
He threw the folded leaflet into a bin two streets over.
He didn’t remember what it said.
His notes app was full of job links now. He had a running tally. 95 applications this week. No interviews. He started cutting and pasting the same cover letter to save battery.
"Motivated individual seeking full-time opportunity."
He no longer believed it, but the words were clean.
In the evenings, he’d sit in the car park behind an Aldi and sip bottled water like it was whiskey.
He started using Gregg’s as a co-working space. Coffee, plug socket, Wi-Fi, pasty. The closest thing he had to an office. There was a plywood shelf bolted to the window, pretending to be a desk. Three metal stools — one always wonky, the kind that spins a little when no one's touching it. A laminated sign above: “15 MINUTE SEATING LIMIT DURING BUSY PERIODS”. It was always a busy period. Levin sat there like a freelancer with nowhere to go, tea cooling in a paper cup. He’d angle his cracked phone toward the street like it was a 17" monitor. It wasn’t an office. But if he imagined hard enough — and ignored the smell of pasties and bleach — it passed.
He thought about asking Dean for help again — maybe a side project, or extra hours. But he didn’t. Because he already knew what the look on Dean’s face would be. Not anger. Not disappointment. Just pity, softened by helplessness. And Levin couldn’t take that look. Not now.
The car smelled of dry sweat and plastic and supermarket bread.
He slept curled in the back with the phone in his hand.
Still refreshing the email.
Still checking.
Still trying.