By noon, she had submitted four applications. By two, she had left messages at three restaurants. By four, she had received one answer from a café manager who said they might need someone in March.
March might as well have been another planet.
At 5:30, Sophie came home with a bag of groceries.
Hannah frowned. “Where did that come from?”
“I used some of my savings.”
“Sophie.”
“We need food.”
“That money is for your application fees.”
“And I can’t apply to college if we starve.”
Hannah wanted to scold her, but the words dissolved.
Sophie set the bag down and pulled out bread, eggs, pasta, and a small carton of strawberries.
Strawberries were not necessary.
That was why Hannah nearly cried.
“You shouldn’t have spent money on these,” she said.
Sophie shrugged. “They were on sale.”
They both knew they were not.
That evening, they ate pasta with butter and pepper while the wind rattled the windows. Hannah checked her phone every few minutes, half hoping for a call, half dreading bad news.
At 8:17 p.m., her phone rang.
Unknown number.
Hannah answered quickly.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice spoke on the other end, low and controlled.
“Is this Hannah Brooks?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Daniel Whitmore. I’m Margaret Whitmore’s son.”
Hannah sat straighter.
“Oh. Is she okay?”
There was a pause.
“She’s safe,” he said. “She’s resting at home now.”
Hannah closed her eyes in relief. “Good. I’m glad.”
“My mother told me about you.”
“She remembered?”
“Pieces,” he said. His voice softened slightly. “Enough.”
Hannah looked across the table at Sophie, who was watching with wide eyes.
“I’m just glad someone found her,” Hannah said.
“You found her.”
“She was behind the diner. I just helped.”
Another pause.
Then Daniel said, “Officer Daniels told me you stayed with my mother at the hospital.”
“She was scared.”
“And before that, you took her into your home.”
“Yes.”
“After your manager refused to let her inside.”
Hannah went still.
“I didn’t tell her that part to cause trouble,” she said carefully.
“You didn’t have to. The officer did.”
Hannah rubbed her forehead. “Mr. Whitmore, I don’t want anything from your family.”
“I didn’t assume you did.”
“I just mean… I helped her because she needed help.”
“I know.”
His answer was immediate.
Something in his tone made Hannah quiet.
Daniel Whitmore sounded tired. Not careless. Not entitled. Tired in a way Hannah recognized.
“I would like to thank you in person,” he said. “Would tomorrow morning be possible?”
Hannah hesitated. “That’s not necessary.”
“It is to me.”
“I don’t have a car right now.”
“I can come to you.”
Hannah glanced around the apartment, at the peeling paint near the window and the laundry basket beside the couch.
“Maybe somewhere public,” she said.
“Of course. Miller’s Diner?”
Her stomach tightened.
“I don’t work there anymore.”
The silence that followed was sharp.
“Because of last night?” Daniel asked.
Hannah did not answer.
“I see,” he said, and his voice changed just slightly.
Hannah heard it.
A door closing somewhere inside him.
Not against her.
Against someone else.
“Would ten tomorrow morning at the town library work?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Ms. Brooks.”
“Hannah is fine.”
“Then thank you, Hannah.”