1
CHARLIE
The hospital’s fluorescent lights buzz in my ear like wasps as the billing coordinator’s voice drones through my phone, each word another nail in my grandmother’s coffin.
“Miss Davis, without the five-thousand-dollar payment by end of business today, we’ll have no choice but to transfer Mrs. Davis to a state facility.”
My fingers tighten around the phone until my knuckles go white. State facility.
The words taste like ash in my mouth.
Those places where old people go to die forgotten, where the staff is overworked and underpaid, where Grandma Rose will become just another body in a bed, waiting for the end.
“I understand,” I whisper, though I don’t.
I don’t understand how the world can be so cruel, how one stroke can devour a lifetime of savings in weeks, how I’m supposed to choose between keeping a roof over my head and keeping my grandmother alive.
The coordinator’s sigh crackles through the speaker. “I’m sorry, Miss Davis. I really am. But hospital policy?—”
I hang up before she can finish. My hands shake as I stare at my phone screen, at the eviction notice email that arrived this morning.
Three days.
I have three days before my landlord changes the locks, and I’m living in my car with nothing but the clothes on my back and a collection of thrift-store teacups that won’t keep me warm at night.
The diner’s break room smells like old grease and desperation. I’ve been surviving on stolen ketchup packets and the occasional plate of fries a sympathetic cook slides my way.
My vintage sundress hangs looser than it did a month ago, the floral pattern faded from too many washes in the laundromat sink.
I catch my reflection in the grimy mirror above the sink.
Hollow cheeks.
Dark circles under hazel eyes that shift between green and gold depending on the light.
Auburn hair escaping its messy bun in waves that would look romantic if they weren’t just evidence of not having time to care.
I look like what I am. Desperate. Broken. Alone.
Everyone leaves.The thought slides through my mind like a knife between ribs.
Mom left when I was two, chasing some man and a bottle into oblivion.
Dad never even tried to stay.
Grandma Rose is the only person who ever chose me, who ever stayed, who ever made me feel like I was worth keeping.
And now I’m going to lose her too.
My shift ends, and I drive to St. Michael’s Catholic Church because I don’t know where else to go.
The building rises against the afternoon sky, all weathered limestone and Gothic Revival architecture that’s seen better days.
The bell tower reaches toward heaven like a prayer, and I wonder if God is listening, if He cares about girls like me who steal ketchup packets and can’t pay their rent.
Inside, the church is cool and dim, smelling of incense and old wood and centuries of whispered confessions.
Stained glass windows filter the sunlight into jewel tones that paint the worn pews in shades of ruby and sapphire.
