Even if it costs me everything. The legal aid office was smaller than Darius expected, with manila folders stacked high on every surface and a window unit fighting the afternoon heat. Noah Kendrick, the housing attorney, sat behind a desk that had seen better days. His tie loosened and sleeves rolled up as he examined their paperwork. "This eviction notice timing is no coincidence," Kendrick said, spreading out the documents.
They're moving unusually fast, citing violations that weren't issues during previous inspections. Patrice shifted in her chair, her work uniform wrinkled from an overnight shift. Can they really throw us out that quick? Not legally, no. But they're counting on you not knowing that.
Kendrick pulled out a highlighter. See these dates? They're trying to bypass standard notice periods. The speakerphone crackled with gunnery Sergeant Menddees's voice. Similar pattern to other properties near the library.
Push people out fast. Minimal paper trail. Patrice's hands twisted in her lap. What if we just take whatever deal they offer? At least we'd have somewhere to live.
Mama, no. Darius leaned forward. If we sign their papers, we help them bury the truth about Lahi. The truth won't keep us warm, baby. Patrice's voice cracked.
Sometimes you have to bend to survive. Kendrick held up a hand. Before anyone signs anything, we need to find Ms. Grayson. Her testimony could stop both the eviction and the complaint against Darius. Our networks are checking VA facilities, Mendes said through the phone.
But she's smart. Probably used an alias. Makes it harder to track her. Darius closed his eyes, remembering Mrs. Sorrel's face at the library. The fear, but also something else.
Guilt, maybe. I need to try something, he said. The librarian knows more than she's saying. 20 minutes later, Darius stood at the library's side entrance, knocking softly. Mrs. Sorrel's face appeared in the narrow window, pale and drawn.
She cracked the door just enough to whisper, "Please go away. I can't help you. You saw what happened to her, didn't you?" Darius kept his voice gentle. The night she disappeared.
Mrs. Sorrel glanced over her shoulder, though the library was empty. I shouldn't. She trusted me with food every day. Now I need to make sure she's safe. Something in Mrs. Sorrel's expression crumbled.
She slipped through the door. Hugging herself in the afternoon heat. It was late after closing, she began. I was leaving through the back when I saw the ambulance. No sirens, just lights.
Her voice dropped lower. She was conscious, arguing with them about her bag, but they took her anyway. Did you hear where? Mrs. Sorrel reached into her cardigan pocket with trembling fingers. I found this by the curb after they left.
I should have said something sooner, but she pressed a torn paper into his hand. I was scared. People who ask too many questions about Lahi tend to have problems. Darius examined the scrap, a medical intake sticker, partially smeared, but still legible. An unfamiliar last name, and what looked like a facility code.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "You're doing the right thing." Mrs. Sorrel's eyes filled with tears. She used to work here, you know, years ago, before they started pushing people out. She knew every book, every child's name.
She squeezed Darius's arm. Find her, please. The drive to the facility was tense. Patrice sat in the back seat of Menddees's car, still in her work uniform, while Darius held the torn sticker like it might dissolve if he gripped it too hard. Street lights began flickering on as evening approached.
The facility is about 20 minutes ahead, Menddees said, checking his GPS. It's a hospice center, but they have a VA wing. If she's there, we'll find her. What if we're too late? Patrice asked softly.
Darius touched the sticker again, tracing the smeared letters. He thought of Lahie's fierce dignity on those library steps. How she'd turned simple meals into lessons about integrity. How she'd watched and measured and chosen him to carry something important. She's alive, he said, more prayer than certainty.
She has to be. The facility's lights appeared ahead. Warm windows dotting a long brick building. Darius clutched the torn sticker, his heart pounding against his ribs. He could almost hear Ly's voice, sharp, proud, hiding wisdom behind criticism.
All those meals, all those conversations on the steps, they had to lead somewhere. They had to mean something. "Please still be alive," he whispered as they pulled into the parking lot. The sticker trembled in his fingers, a fragile map to whatever truth Lahi had been protecting all along. The fluorescent lights of the hospice center hummed overhead as Darius approached the reception desk, his mother and gunnery sergeant Menddees close behind.
The evening shift nurse, her name tag reading Tanya Lewis, looked up from her computer with practiced politeness. "May I help you?" she asked, eyes moving cautiously between Darius's worn hoodie and Menddees's crisp uniform. "We're looking for a patient who may be registered under an alias," Menddees said, stepping forward. "It's a sensitive matter involving veteran affairs," Nurse Lewis's expression tightened. "I'm sorry, but patient privacy protocols."
"Ma'am," Menddees interrupted gently, pulling out a folder. "We have documentation. Emergency contact protocols authorized by the patient herself. He slid several official looking papers across the desk. Darius held his breath as the nurse examined each page, her forehead creasing.
The antiseptic smell of the facility made his stomach turn. Or maybe it was the fear of what they might find. Patrice's hand found his shoulder steady despite her exhaustion. These appear to be in order, nurse Lewis finally said, though uncertainty lingered in her voice. Room 214.
But please understand if the patient is sleeping or doesn't wish to see visitors. We understand, Menddees assured her. We'll follow all protocols. They followed the nurse down sterile hallways, their footsteps echoing against lenolium floors. Each room they passed held stories of endings, of lives winding down beneath thin blankets and beeping monitors.
Darius's heart hammered against his ribs. Room 214's door stood half open. Nurse Lewis knocked softly before entering. Miss Thompson, you have visitors. Darius stepped into the room and his breath caught.
Lahi lay in the hospital bed, smaller than he remembered, tubes running from her arms to clicking machines. But her eyes, those sharp, measuring eyes, opened and found him immediately. "Well," she said, voice rough but strong. "Took you long enough." Relief flooded through Darius as he moved to her bedside.