Chapter 10
Office light buzzed low behind us. Dusk came through high warehouse windows and turned blue racks gray. I sat at metal desk, coat folded over my knees. He stood by door, not behind desk. Did not press. That was why I started talking.
I hadn't planned sentence. Air smelled like cardboard and cold concrete and his coffee gone cold. My heels sat side by side under chair, beige toes scuffed. I stared at them.
"You asked what happened," I said. "I've been skipping parts."
He nodded once. Did not move closer.
I told chain straight, no melodrama. Just dates and dollars.
"March, Miller's Diner cut hours. I was on County Road 9, breakfast shift, six to two. Owner, Dave Miller, posted new schedule March third. My thirty-two hours dropped to eighteen. He said lunch traffic down. I didn't argue. Eighteen hours at fourteen fifty an hour doesn't cover rent."
My voice stayed flat. I listened to it to keep it flat.
"Rent was nine-fifty for studio on Walnut, above laundromat. April, I paid late, fifty dollar fee. May, I paid six hundred, told manager I'd catch up June first. June first I had four hundred. She said no partial. June fourth, around four p.m., I came back from school pick-up line — my sister's kid, I watch him Thursdays — and lock changed. Brass deadbolt new. Envelope taped to door. Notice to vacate, seven days to claim property if I paid storage fee. I didn't have storage fee."
I swallowed. Hands tight on coat.
"I called my mom in Elkin. Asked about couch. She said no. Not mean. Her words: 'Margo, my landlord counts heads, and you know your stepdad.' She offered gas money. I said no. I stayed two nights in car behind Gas 'N Go on Highway 421. Back seat, coat as pillow. Third night manager tapped window, said can't park overnight. I walked."
He still hadn't interrupted. Hands in pockets. Watch caught office light.
"I walked from Gas 'N Go to industrial park. About two miles. Nine p.m. Maybe later. I knew warehouse had side door propped sometimes for air. I'd delivered flyers here once for diner. I tried handle. It opened. I slipped inside, aisle three, behind pallets of paper towels. I thought one night. Just until paycheck cleared. Then you found me at dawn."
I stopped. Breath shallow. No tears. I had practiced not crying when telling it.
Office quiet. Cooler hummed.
He looked at floor, then at me. Did not fix. Did not offer money. That mattered.
"Thank you for telling straight," he said. His voice low. "No one should sleep on concrete to make math work."
I nodded. Could not speak yet.
He paused before next words. "Can I ask something before I say next step? I don't want to assume help you want."
That permission asked — small thing — made shoulders drop.
"Yes," I said.
"Do you want me to help map options? Not cash. Calls, county housing office, shelter intake, maybe shift here if you want it. Only if you want. You say no, I stop."
I thought about Walnut studio, brass lock, car windows fogged, warehouse concrete cold through coat. I thought about not being rescued.
"I want options," I said. "Not gift. Options I can do myself."
He nodded. "Tomorrow morning we can call together. Or I write numbers and you call alone. Your choice."
May you like
Shame still there, but shared now. Not gone, just not hidden. No solution yet. Just truth on desk between us, coat folded, heels waiting.
Outside, dusk deepened over racks. Office door stayed open.
