This time you notice things you were too cautious to take in before. The refrigerator contains half a carton of milk, a mustard bottle, three eggs, and a bruised apple. The pantry has canned soup, saltines, and rice. The kitchen clock is fifteen minutes slow. Mrs. Mercer’s hands shake more when she reaches for her tea. There is a prescription bag on the counter from the county hospital pharmacy, folded and refolded until the paper looks exhausted.
Again you clean. Again she watches. Again you finish, and again she says nothing about money.
On your way out, you finally clear your throat and say, carefully, “Mrs. Mercer, about the pay…”
She looks at you over her glasses. “You need it badly?”
You feel heat rise to your face. Pride and hunger have never liked each other, and both are suddenly awake.
“I just counted on it.”
She studies you for a few seconds, then nods once. “Come back next week.”
That is not an answer, but it is all you get.
On the walk to the bus stop, you are furious at yourself for not insisting. You replay the moment in a loop, coming up with sharper versions of what you should have said. Rent is due in ten days. Your chemistry textbook access code expires soon. You do not have time to perform kindness for free in haunted houses at the end of alleys.
And yet the next Thursday, you go back.
