Buying a gallon of milk meant wondering whether the electric bill could wait another week. Paying the electric bill meant choosing between gasoline and groceries. Asking for help meant admitting that all the promises she had made to herself about providing a better life for Lily had begun to crumble.
And refusing help meant watching her daughter attempt to sell her bicycle beneath an oak tree.
She had never been able to decide which choice was worse.
After Jack left, Sarah stood in the kitchen holding the paper bag he had brought.
Lily sat at the table, eating a breakfast sandwich with both hands.
Mom?
Sarah looked at her.
Yes, sweetheart?
Are you mad at Bear?
No.
Are you scared of him?
Sarah glanced toward the front door.
I don't know.
Lily considered that.
He's nice.
Yes, he is.
He fixed my bicycle.
I know.
And he gave me money.
I know, Lily.
And he brought breakfast.
Sarah smiled faintly.
I know, sweetheart.
Lily lowered her sandwich.
Then why did you look like that?
Sarah sat across from her.
Because the man who had appeared beneath the oak tree looked at her as though he had been searching for something his entire life.
Because he knew her mother's name.
Because the necklace she wore every day, the one Rebecca had placed around her neck on her eighteenth birthday, had a matching piece in his hand.
Because her mother had spent her final months growing increasingly forgetful, sometimes waking in the middle of the night and whispering a name Sarah couldn't quite hear.
Jack.
She had assumed it was a neighbor from her mother's childhood.
Or perhaps a cousin.
Now she wasn't sure.
I'm not mad at him, Sarah said. "I just need to understand something."
Lily took another bite.
Can I keep my bike?
Sarah's heart tightened.
Of course.
Even though I tried to sell it?
Especially because you tried to sell it.
Lily's face brightened.
Sarah reached across the table and covered her daughter's hand with hers.
But I need you to promise me something.
What?
If we ever run out of food again, you come to me. You don't sell your things. You don't go looking for strangers. You tell me.
Lily's eyes lowered.
But you were hungry.
I know.
And you wouldn't eat.
Sarah had no answer that wouldn't sound like an excuse.
Finally, she squeezed her daughter's hand.
You're right. I should have told you the truth.
Lily looked up.
Are you going to eat today?
Sarah laughed, but the sound broke halfway through.
Yes, sweetheart.
Really?
Really.
Can you promise?
Sarah kissed her forehead.
I promise.
She had made that promise before.
This time, she intended to keep it.
At nine o'clock, Sarah called the property management office.
She had rehearsed the conversation while washing the dishes, then while folding laundry, then while standing beside the window watching Lily ride her bicycle in the driveway.
She had written down the amount she owed, the date of the final notice, and the number of days remaining before the eviction process could begin.
Three weeks.
That was how long she had.
Good morning, she said when the receptionist answered. "My name is Sarah Carter. I'm calling about the balance on my rent."
The receptionist typed something.
Yes, Mrs. Carter. Your account is past due.
I understand. I was hoping to arrange a payment plan.
Your file indicates you've already received two extensions.
I know. I've been looking for work.
Unfortunately, we have procedures we must follow.
Sarah closed her eyes.
I can make a partial payment this week.
How much?
She swallowed.
I don't know yet.
There was a pause.
Mrs. Carter, if you cannot bring the account current, the property manager may not be able to extend the deadline again.
I understand.
Is there anything else I can help you with?
Sarah looked toward the kitchen, where the groceries from the Road Saints filled the counter.
For a moment, she wanted to say everything.
That her husband had died. That the factory had closed. That she had spent her savings trying to keep a roof over her daughter's head. That she had been so ashamed of her situation she had allowed her child to believe selling a bicycle was the best way to save her.
Instead, she said, "No. Thank you."
She hung up.
Then she sat at the table and cried.
She cried for ten minutes.
When she was finished, she washed her face and opened her laptop.
There had to be a job somewhere.
There had to be a way forward.
She had survived worse days than this.
At least, she hoped she had.
Across town, Jack was standing in a cramped office behind the Road Saints' garage, staring at an old photograph.
The picture had been taken outside the machine shop in 1989. Jack was twenty, wearing grease-stained jeans and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Rebecca stood beside him, laughing at something beyond the camera.
Her dark hair was tied back with a red ribbon.
One hand rested on Jack's shoulder.
The other held a paper bag of peaches she had stolen from her father's kitchen because, according to her, "a person cannot be expected to build a future on an empty stomach."
Jack touched the edge of the photograph.
He remembered that afternoon with painful clarity.
Rebecca had brought him lunch because he had forgotten to eat. They had spent an hour discussing their plans for the future, including a small garage of their own, a house with a porch, and a dog Rebecca insisted would be named Theodore regardless of whether it was male or female.
They had been young enough to believe that love was a kind of protection.
They had been wrong about many things.
But not about loving each other.
Maggie appeared in the doorway.
Any luck with Delaney?
Jack shook his head.
He hung up.
That doesn't sound promising.
He told me to leave Sarah alone.
Maggie came farther into the room.
Did he explain why?