She walks out into the parking deck and sits in her 2003 Civic and grips the steering wheel until her knuckles go pale. She does not cry there. She drives three blocks before she pulls over and cries.
Wednesday: The landlord delivers the new eviction notice in person: seven days, not thirty. He cannot meet her eyes, either: "It's nothing personal, Tanisha. The owner is getting calls."
A reporter parks across the street from the apartment in a white van and stays for six hours.
At Carver Elementary, the principal pulls Bryce out of class third period. He is escorted to the front office for his safety. He sits on a bench by the secretary's desk all afternoon. He misses recess and lunch. The secretary brings him a granola bar; he cannot eat it. His best friend's mother sees him at the front door at 3:15 and pulls her son sharply by the wrist to a different car. Bryce stands in the rain at the curb with no one to walk home with.
That night, Tanisha locks herself in the bathroom and sits on the edge of the tub with her hand pressed over her mouth so her son won't hear. She fails. Bryce is on the other side of the door. He sits down on the hallway floor with his back against the wood; he can feel her shoulders shaking through it.
He says, very small, "Mama."
She doesn't answer.
He says it again: "Mama, did I do something bad? I just wanted her to stop being scared."
Inside, Tanisha bites the inside of her own cheek until it bleeds.
Across town in a private room at Brookhaven Memory Care, Eleanor Whitfield sits by the window in a robe the color of cream. A nurse, Margaret O'Donnell, 52, in scrubs printed with small daisies, is brushing her hair. Eleanor is having a clear afternoon: her eyes are sharp, she is watching the cars in the parking lot.
"Margaret."