I know too well what awaits her otherwise. Cast out into the streets at an ungodly hour with a child, she’s left to wander until the shelter reopens. The staff is forced to kick everyone out at dawn, and they can return around lunch service. The door remains closed, allowing the staff time to strip the cots, sanitize all surfaces, and redress the beds with fresh linen. It is a preventive measure to keep the environment free of germs, especially as flu season approaches—a necessary act, but one that is nonetheless cruel.
The little girl tugs on her mom’s frayed sweater. “Can we? Mama, please?” she asks, with more plea in her words than a question. A tremor passes through her already thin frame, and that little shiver was enough to shatter her mother’s resolve. Enough to have the mom agreeing to it, she gives a low, reluctant nod. Her head bowed and broken with shame.
I step ahead to the door and pull it open, and at once a rush of warm air escapes from the vents above, rolling over us. The little girl releases a soft sigh as they walk through, and I know I’ve made the right choice. I gently guide them to the counter. The mom’s voice is soft and unsure as she orders a hot tea and the little girl a hot chocolate with whipped cream. I know she’s trying to be grateful and not order anything else, so I step up to the counter beside them, adding to their order. I get two bagel breakfast sandwiches and muffins for them, along with a new drink for myself, and gather it all into a single tray.
Carrying it back to my corner table, I set it down beside my neglected items, where the coffee had grown cold, and the scone remained untouched. The little girl’s gaze lingers longingly on the tray until I slide the items toward her. She blinks as if in a trance. She looks up to me in silent permission as I nod once. Her little hand extends outward to reach for the hot chocolate. She wraps her hand around the cup, holding it as if it weresomething magical. She bites into the sandwich urgently, then quickly abandons it for the muffin.
The sight breaks my heart, and my chest aches with the urge to tell her to slow down. To promise her that the food won't vanish, but maybe it’s something she’s used to, and I don’t want to lie to her. I just want her to know that this time it’s okay. This time, she is safe. I don’t do any of that, because it’s best not to make promises you can’t keep. These are the ones that break you. Instead, I bring my own cup to my lips, swallowing the bitter liquid going down hard along with the bitter fury boiling inside in a world full of indifference.
Her mom finally picks up her sandwich, her movement hesitant, expecting someone to rip it away at the last minute. Through every careful, controlled bite, I can see her restraint in trying to maintain her composure. To not seem too eager and appear too hungry. Wanting to ease some of the heaviness I feel and the emotions that threaten to rise to the surface when I recall similar memories I’ve tried to suppress, I attempt to offer them a glimpse of my life, perhaps allowing them to feel a sense of safety in my presence.
“I started at the shelter about a year ago,” I tell them quietly as if I am remembering a story instead of chatting up conversation. “I wish I could do more, but my hours are spent at the hospital where I work. I work as a surgeon at Boston Hospital, and my schedule is time-consuming.” I let the words hang in the air between us, hoping they can reassure them that I am somewhat trustworthy. People often mistake my composure and distance for indifference, and perhaps they are not wrong. More often than not, I appear tough, as if nothing touches me. But this? This matters to me. I want them to know, for the first time in a long time, that beneath the mask of the emotionally detached surgeon, there is still a man who cares, although it’s been a while since it has been about anyone in particular.
Her eyes shift, softening. She clears her throat, the sound rough, like a voice without practice. Being silent or unseen can wear a soul down.
“Thank you for this.” She lifts her bagel, then tilts her chin toward the one clutched in her daughter’s hands.
“It’s nothing,” I answer quickly. I don’t want her gratitude. Not for something so simple as an act of kindness. Food and warmth should never require a thank you. Nor should compassion toward another fellow human, but here we are.
She hesitates, then offers, “I’m Sonya, and this is my daughter, Rose.” I incline my head in acknowledgement, committing the names to memory. Not Dani, Rose. Got it.
“Call me Vic. That’s what my friends call me.” I offer a small smile. The little girl meets mine, whipped cream resting on the tip of her nose. I tap my own, gesturing to my nose, making her look down. Her eyes crossing most endearingly, she notices it, and before she can remove it, her mother reaches over and wipes it clean.
I didn’t dare reach over myself to clean it off. The bruises on her arm give me pause, and the last thing I want to do is make her uncomfortable or remind her of it. She is just about to take another bite of her muffin when her mom motions for her to follow her to the bathroom.
“Can’t I stay here with Vic, Mom? I just want to eat my muffin,” she whispers hesitantly. Her mom’s eyes flick to mine, silently asking for permission before she gets up.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her, meeting Rose’s gaze. “I’ll be right here and watch over her. Go to the bathroom. Take your time.”
She nods once, placing a protective hand over her daughter's shoulder before walking toward the sign with the arrow pointing to the bathrooms.
Rose kicks her feet back and forth beneath the table, a small carefree motion that makes her look happy. Like a little girl her age on an ordinary day, without the worry of hunger or fear. Trying to engage her in conversation, I ask, “Will I see you tomorrow? I’ll be serving lunch on Saturday.”
She shrugs her shoulders, glancing toward the bathroom where her mom had just gone. Her hesitation bothers me. I lean a little closer. “Is everything alright?”
For a moment, I think she might look away, retreat behind her furry stuffed rabbit, but then she meets my stare. Worry flicks across her features. “What is it?” I press further.
Sparing one last glance at the bathroom, she turns to me, “My mom is thinking about taking us back to that house.”
I stiffen, a knot forming in my stomach. Carefully, I ask, my voice trying to be calm. “With your dad?”
She nods once. The shadow of a frown graces her lips. “And that makes you scared…because you’re afraid he might hurt you? Or your mom?” I ask, letting the words hang between us. Another nod, followed by silence that speaks more than words, fills the room. The tension is thick and suffocating. Her fear is palpable, and the fact that she trusts me with this secret makes me act before I can second-guess it.
I grab a business card with my information on it, scrawling my cell phone number on the back, and hand it to her discreetly. “I’m going to give this to you. I want you to hide it, okay?” She nods, the only sign she is listening as she continues to nibble on her muffin. “My number is on the back,” I continue softly, “so you can reach me if you need to.” She takes the card, folds it in half, and tucks it inside her little stuffed toy, where there must be a tiny hole in the stuffing. Once she rights it, she presses the toy under her arm again and sips her hot chocolate.
“You’ll help me?” she whispers, barely audible. But I hear her. Loud and fucking clear. Her gaze lifts to mine, and in those eyes, I see something I hadn’t seen there before–hope.
I bring my hand to my heart. “I promise,” I tell her. She smiles briefly before her expression turns to a thin line as her mom slides into her seat across from us.
TWENTY-FIVE
DANI
Icould hardly believe it when the email finally came. “I got the job!” I do a little dance. I had been waiting, knowing it would arrive, as the director had smiled and told me I would be hearing from them soon. But the confirmation last night felt like a salvation after the heaviness of my emotions. Hearing Bethany go on about Vic had my blood boiling, so this huge victory was a much-needed win to help elevate my mood. And if I’m being honest, the memory of Bethany dripping with my bloodytini was its own kind of sadistic satisfaction that will long live rent-free in my head. Smiling, I ready myself for the first day of my dream job.
In a grey knit dress and my favorite black trench coat, a bargain I scored for a ridiculous price at Marshall's, I walk down the street toward the hospital. The morning air is crisp, heavy with a hint of autumn’s chill, and a sign for Café Nero catches my eye. I slow my pace, wondering if I have time to stop before my orientation begins.
As I walk to the door, I see him, and I stop in my tracks. I freeze watching him through the window as he sits at a table with a woman and a little girl. There’s an unease in theirpostures. The woman’s shoulders are held tight and guarded, and the little child is restless.
