I force my face into something calm and normal. “Okay. I’ll take care of it.”
“Will you be able to sort it out within the week?” Her face turns apologetic. “I’m sorry. It’s just?—”
“Policy,” I complete the sentence, because this is not my first rodeo. “I know. I’ll fix it.”
She nods like this is an acceptable answer, but I can already feel the panic starting under my skin.
Fix it how, exactly?
The overtime Donald has been “forgetting” to put through?
The money that is currently evaporating into daycare fees, sitter wages, groceries, school supplies, and rent now that my landlord has decided the privilege of living in a box with plumbing is worth more than it used to be?
Sure. I’ll just go shake my magic money tree and see what falls out.
Noah is tugging on my hand.
“Mom?”
I smile down at him.
“You go have fun, okay? I’ll see you later.”
He hugs me, backpack and all, then runs off like the last ten minutes of my life did not happen.
Must be nice.
I walk back outside trying to keep my expression neutral, but inside I am swearing like a dockworker in a storm.
Donald has been holding back my overtime for weeks. I know he has. I also know he thinks I won’t push too hard because he’s right: I need this job too much to make myself difficult.
Well.
Today, I am choosing to be difficult.
I cross the street toward the subway and notice a dark car half a block behind me. It slows when I slow, turns when I turn.
My stomach dips.
Then I force myself to keep walking.
No.
I have been imagining things lately. Shadows moving where they shouldn’t. Cars lingering too long. That sick feeling of being watched. It’s exhaustion, probably. Stress. The natural byproduct of raising a child alone while running on coffee and bad decisions.
By the time I reach the corner, the car turns another way.
See?
Coincidence.
I need sleep. Or vitamins. Or a full nervous breakdown, maybe. Something to reset the system.
By the time I get to the road leading to Notte Bianca, I’m already braced for a bad day and an even worse night.
I am still somehow underestimating it.
The second I step inside, I know we’re fucked.
