J.R. Johnson

A random musing in the form of a drabble: What if finding an adult sponsor were the only way to live past your 18th birthday?

Old and New
Travis smiled as he helped Mr. Frederick with his groceries. Dead-end job? Sure, but it gave him a chance to meet a lot of elders. They usually hid behind retirement community walls, but everyone had to eat.

He slipped a Recommendation card into the last bag, between a head of broccoli and an eggplant.

“Thanks, kid,” the old man said.

Damn it, three weeks of sucking up and Mr. Frederick still didn’t know his name? All his other prospects had fallen through. Travis gave a silent groan as he counted the days to his 18th birthday.

He was so dead.

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