Ray Donnelly woke up on the floor of his apartment because that was where he'd fallen and the couch was too far to make it worth the effort.

The apartment was in Newark. His phone had been disconnected. His shoes were by the door but he couldn't remember putting them there. There was a note from his landlord that said "RENT DUE."

He walked to the bar and ordered a beer he couldn't afford. "Factory called," the bartender said. "They're closing the line. Again."

Ray nodded. He had worked at the factory for eighteen years. The factory was an institution that existed in the hope of not existing.

Two days later, his former boss called. "Ray, I need a favor. Just a small job. Go to a warehouse in Elizabeth and pick up a crate. Deliver it to a dock. Five hundred dollars."

"What's in the crate?" "That's not your business."

He took the job. The crate was maybe three feet by two. The man at the dock handed him an envelope. It was a thousand dollars.

A week later, Maria Gonzalez, who lived two doors down, called. "My brother says there's an operation going on. Smuggling. Electronics, drugs, maybe weapons."

Ray hung up the phone and looked at the thousand dollars on his kitchen table.

Eddie Sullivan, his Korean War veteran neighbor, came to his door. "You been moving crates lately? Stay away from it. It's a one-way ticket to something you don't want to arrive at."

Ray listened. He nodded. He did not stop.

He moved four more crates over three weeks. Each time, more money. On the fifth delivery, the man waiting had a face like a closed fist. "That crate had serial numbers on it." Ray couldn't remember. "Last one," the man said. "After this, you're done."

Ray took the envelope. It was two thousand dollars. He wanted to say no. But the rent was due and the bar was closed and he had nothing else to do until tomorrow. He took the money.

That night, he sat in his apartment and realized that he had moved something that was probably illegal, probably dangerous, and probably going to come back and find him whether he wanted it to or not.

He drank a beer. It tasted like metal. He went home and fell asleep on the floor because the couch was too far.

Some mornings, that's as heroic as it gets.