Denied. Denied. Denied.
The prompt sits there, blank and cold, like it’s daring me to keep going.
I lean back against the counter, breathing hard, as if I just ran up a flight of stairs.
I can’t access it.
My laptop makes a faint whirring noise, like it’s thinking too hard. The window flickers once, barely noticeable.
Then it settles. Nothing changes.
It’s probably in my head. Grief has me jumping at shadows.
I unplug the flash drive and stare at it in my hand. Too small. Too ordinary. Too easy to hide. Too easy to steal.
Dread settles low in my gut, heavy as a stone.
I grab my shoulder bag and shove the drive inside. I’ll call my uncle when I’m not… like this. Dave’s not my real uncle, just my father’s best friend, the man who’s been around since I was a kid. He’ll know what to do with it. Or at least know someone who does.
I don’t have the energy to figure it out right now. I don’t have the emotional capacity to open a new door when I can barely keep the old ones closed.
My stomach growls, sharp and mean, reminding me I haven’t eaten anything real today. Coffee doesn’t count. Sad crackers don’t count. Neither does the spoonful of peanut butter I had at midnight because sleep wouldn’t come.
I need food. I need outside air. I need to feel like a person for ten minutes.
There’s a hotdog stand two blocks away. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s familiar. And right now, familiar feels like survival.
I grab my keys, sling my bag over my shoulder, and head for the door.
Then I see the glass pie plate on my counter.
Mrs. Daisy brought me pie yesterday.
She’s my neighbor downstairs, the kind of older lady who smells like clean laundry and cinnamon and has the softest voice in the building. She didn’t ask questions when she showed up with pie. She didn’t tilt her head and look at me like I might shatter.
She just said, “Eat something, sweetheart,” and pressed the warm plate into my hands like that was a normal thing to do when someone’s world ends.
I pick up the plate and head down the narrow stairs.
Her door opens before I even finish knocking.
“Look at you,” she says, eyes crinkling. “Looking better.”
“Barely,” I admit, holding up the plate. “Returning this. Also… thank you. For the pie.”
“I’m glad you ate,” she says, like she’s proud of me for accomplishing the bare minimum.
I step inside because she waves me in like she owns me now, like she’s adopted the grief-stricken girl upstairs and decided I’m her responsibility.
Her apartment smells like lemon cleaner and old books. A fan hums in the corner. The TV is on low. Everything is soft and lived-in, like comfort has been baked into the walls.
I set the plate on her counter.
“You heading out?” she asks.
“Hotdog,” I say, forcing a tiny smile. “Trying to be… functional.”
“That’s good,” she says firmly. “That’s very good. Your dad would want you eating.”
