So you cook.
It starts with the most basic things, the kind of food you know from home and from living close to the edge. Rice with garlic. Chicken broth with carrots and potatoes. Scrambled eggs with onions and toast. Nothing glamorous, just food with enough warmth in it to convince a room life still lives there. Mrs. Mercer takes the first spoonful of the broth and closes her eyes.
“Well,” she says after a moment, “that tastes like someone was raised properly.”
It is the first thing she says that feels like praise.
From then on, the boundaries dissolve.
You still clean, but now you also stop at the pharmacy if she needs a refill and her knees are too swollen to manage the bus. You pick up groceries when the weather turns sharp. Once, in late January, she calls you from a number you do not recognize because she has made it halfway to the corner and suddenly feels dizzy. You leave campus, find her sitting on a milk crate near the alley entrance with one gloved hand pressed to her chest, and take her to urgent care in a rideshare you cannot really afford.
