Skip to content 
I’d learned that lesson thirty years ago when I started with nothing but a used Peterbilt and debts that would’ve made a weaker person swallow a bullet.
He lowered his head further, if that was even possible. “I was fired. My father-in-law said our blood doesn’t match his. Said I’m bad for the brand.”
The words hung in the crisp October air like smoke
from a funeral pyre. Our blood doesn’t match. As if blood were something you could trade on the stock exchange, something that appreciated with age like fine wine or art. As if the color of hemoglobin determined a person’s worth rather than their character, their actions, their loyalty.
I chuckled—a sound without humor, dry as old bones. “Get in the