a week in his own clothes. Whatever he’d wear on a Saturday. Jeans. A T-shirt. Old shoes. And he works the teller window. Not the manager’s office. The window. Where Shelly sits.”
Brandon’s mouth fell open.
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Ezoic
“Why?”
Ezoic
“Because I want you to stand on the other side of that glass,” I said. “Not as a manager. As a person. I want you to see what it feels like when people look at your clothes first. And I want you to see what it feels like when they don’t.”
Brandon was
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