Dana Bisignani

They have us corralled in the basement of the courthouse. One desk and a row of folding chairs— just like first grade, our desks facing Teacher in neat little rows. Upstairs, wooden benches like pews and red carpet reserved for those who’ve held out the longest. No creditors have come to claim us today. We’re small-time. This guy from the graveyard shift stares at his steel-toed boots, nervous hands in his lap. None of us look each other in the eye. We steal quick looks—how did you get here