The engine wheezes to a stop. His usual parking spot, in sight of his office. Well, the space where he worked; he didn't have a window. Or an office.
Two years in, and his mother still reminded him how lucky he was. "You have such a great career ahead of you."
His father would always add, "Beats digging ditches!"
Indeed. Though at least ditches are dug from above. All his career is still in the future, earth above him, pressing down. In forty years he might reach the surface, should he live that long.
Unclenching his hands from the wheel, picking up his case, feet carrying him to the door. Shoulders sinking under the weight, ready to start digging again.
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