It’s even more obvious that I’m desperate.
“You a cop?” asks a woman with graying hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her coat is too big, held closed with duct tape, but her eyes are sharp, intelligent, and miss nothing.
“No.” I swallow hard. “My—my friend was shot. We can’t go to a hospital. I need someone to buy medicalsupplies.”
“Shot?” A younger man steps forward, maybe mid-thirties, with a scraggly beard and hands that shake slightly. “Why can’t you go to a hospital?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
The questions come faster now, the group’s suspicion shifting toward curiosity. These people understand complicated. They live it every day.
“Bad people are looking for us,” I say finally. “Hospital means they find us. My friend dies either way—from the wounds or from them.”
The woman with the ponytail—clearly the group’s leader—studies my face with the intensity of someone who’s learned to read people for survival.
“What kind of supplies?” she asks.
I unfold the list and read it aloud. “Gauze pads, medical tape, antiseptic, ibuprofen, protein bars, water bottles.”
“That’s maybe twenty-five dollars at the corner store,” says a man wearing a military surplus jacket with faded patches. His voice carries the flat precision of someone who’s counted every penny for too long. “You said you could pay.”
“Fifty dollars.” I pull out the bills Cooper gave me, hold them where everyone can see. “Twenty-five for supplies. Twenty-five when they’re delivered.”
The money changes everything. Backs straighten. Eyes sharpen. Twenty-five dollars is a day’s worth of meals, maybe more.
“I’ll do it,” the young man with the beard says immediately.
“Like hell,” snaps someone else. “I was here first.”
“You can’t even walk to the corner without falling over,” the woman says, voice cutting through the argument. She turns to me. “I’ll go. But I want the money first.”
I extend the bills, and she takes them, counts twice. The paper disappears into her coat pocket.
“Ten minutes,” she says. “Corner store’s two blocks. I’ll be back.”
“What if you don’t come back?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
She laughs, sharp and bitter. “Honey, if I wanted to steal your money, I’d pick a target who wasn’t standing in the middle of my home asking for help.” Her expression softens slightly. “Your friend really shot?”
“Yes.”
“Bad?”
The image flashes through my mind—Cooper’s blood-soaked shirt, the way his hands shook when he thought I wasn’t looking, how his voice got rougher as he fought to stay conscious.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Name’s Janet.” She nods once. “Ten minutes.”
And she’s gone, walking with purposeful strides toward the street. I stand awkwardly beside the fire, trying not to stare at the people who’ve witnessed my transaction. The silence stretches until the military jacket man speaks.
“Your friend military?”
“Former.”
“Thought so. Only military folks think they can patch bullet holes with T-shirts and willpower.”
