She only had $12 left. Loretta Williams counted the bills twice that morning, spreading them flat on her kitchen table like they were something sacred. Two fives, two ones. That was it. That was everything standing between her and the end of the month.

The math was simple, brutal. $7 for bread, beans, and rice. $5 for the Sunday church bus fair. Nothing left for emergencies. Nothing left for mercy. But Loretta had learned a long time ago that mercy doesn't wait for convenient timing. At 68 years old, with silver curls tucked beneath her faded Sunday bonnet and hands that still trembled from arthritis every morning, Loretta moved through the east side of Jackson.

Mississippi like a hymn, soft, steady, and unshakable. The neighborhood knew her, respected her, called her Mama Loretta, even though most of her neighbors had never stepped foot in her home. This wasn't the kind of street where people got close. It was the kind where sirens sang lullabibis and gunshots marked the hours like a broken clock. But Loretta stayed gentle anyway.