The day will be full of errands disguised as adventures. She learns coffee that isn’t delivered on a tray tastes better if you have to wait for it. Learns the trick of nodding to the person handing it to you like they exist. Learns you can tell a lot from shoes: construction boots mean don’t block the sidewalk, stilettos mean the crosswalk will slow, white sneakers mean someone’s about to stop short for a photo.
We ride the Q over the river and sit in the front car so the tunnel becomes a mouth swallowing us whole and spitting us out into the light. She presses her palm to the window like a kid. I pretend not to notice the reflection of my grin.
On the way back, we detour through Chinatown and split ten dumplings for five bucks at a place with a menu taped to the wall and a cat that owns the stool by the register. Charity closes her eyes on the first bite like she’s listening to a secret.
"I had no idea," she says, which is becoming her anthem.
At a cross street, a guy bumps me hard enough to make a point and apologizes in a tone that isn’t. I turn my body, put her behind my shoulder, smile without showing teeth. He peels off. She exhales slowly.
"Assess, not assume," she says, echoing me.
"Proud of you," I say before I can stop it.
That earns me a look—unguarded, curious—and heat slides under my skin like a dare that knows my answer.
Lucky gets a short walk when we’re back, his limp more habit than hindrance, nose telling him more about the estate than I’ll ever learn. He pees on a hedge that probably has a pedigree and then looks smug about it. Charity laughs, open and unguarded, and my chest trips like it missed a step.
After we’re all inside, she goes into her bedroom for a minute while I stretch out on the rug with Lucky and scratch his chest until his back leg starts thumping the air like he’s pedaling an invisible bicycle.
"Good job," I tell him. "You picked us."
Charity slips back in and sets a manilla envelope on the floor next to me.
"Homework," she says, proud. "I did it."
"Let’s see." I flip it open.
Too much.
Crisp hundreds stacked in a tidy brick—banded, for Goddess sake. This isn’t emergency money. This is a target painted in green and ignorance. My spine goes cold with a memory: Roman heat and dust, a kid bragging about a stolen purse, the way men without conscience follow the scent of easy wealth.
"Charity." Her name comes out; a growl I didn’t mean. I lower my voice fast. "How much is this?"
She brightens as if she’s waiting for a gold star. "Ten thousand. You said to always have cash. I wanted to be prepared."
Lucky’s ears tip forward. The room gets very quiet.
"I said a hundred," I say carefully, each word a stone I place between us so we don’t fall into something we can’t climb out of. "Ten thousand gets you followed. Ten thousand gets someone hurt. Ten thousand is how you bleed in a city that smells blood."
Her face changes—the light flickers, shutters slam. She eases to the floor next to me. "I don’t understand. Money fixes things."
"In your world," I say, and it comes out harsher than I want. "In mine, money starts fights."
She looks at the envelope like it’s a bomb she assembled wrong. "What do I do?"
I slide the stack back into her hands, closing her fingers around it. "You’re going to keep one hundred, then put this away where you found it. Next time we go out together, we’ll break it into small bills and you’re going to listen to me when I tell you how not to get killed trying to be generous."
Silence. Then she nods—once, sharp. "Okay."
"Okay," I echo, and the tension bleeds enough that I can breathe again.
"You got this from your room? Please tell me you at least have a safe."
She nods, looking down at the money as if it might bite her.
Her phone buzzes on the table. She glances, grimaces, flips it face-down. Probably her parents wondering where she is. Which means she really should go.
But neither of us moves.
