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A History Grad’s Fall into the Void I walked across the stage—well, a Zoom stage, anyway—in May 2020, clutching my master’s degree in history like it was a ticket to somewhere. I was 26, brimming with theories about the socio-political fallout of the Tea Act and the kind of guy who could tell you what brand of tobacco Shakespeare might’ve smoked (probably something rough, imported from the New World). I thought the world needed that. I thought I’d be elbow-deep in archives, maybe teaching wide-eyed undergrads about the Articles of Confederation at some small liberal arts college. I was wrong. The world didn’t need historians. It needed ventilators, Zoom accounts, and people who could code apps to track toilet paper shortages. ...

I’m sprawled on the sagging couch in my Fishtown one-bedroom, the Philly humidity making my T-shirt stick to my skin like a bad decision. It’s April 2021, and I’m nursing a hangover from last night’s $3 Yuenglings at Bob & Barbara’s. My laptop’s open, glowing with the wreckage of my life: a Navient email screaming about my $40,000 student loan debt, a maxed-out credit card from a $200 car repair, and a checking account sitting at $87.36. ...