He was seventeen, too tall for his secondhand sneakers, and too proud to ask why I watered down soup.
“Is it bad, Sadie?” he asked.
I folded the notice. “It’s paper. Paper likes to act important.”
“Is it bad, Sadie?”
Owen didn’t smile.
Two hours later, I got a call from a woman who worked for Celeste, the mother of a prisoner named Jonah. Celeste had gotten my name through legal aid after I applied for help with rent and Owen’s guardianship papers.
That should’ve made me hang up.
Instead, I listened because desperate people always listen one second too long.
My landlord wanted rent, Owen needed shoes, and pride had never paid an electric bill, I didn’t have a choice.
So I went to meet her.
Owen didn’t smile.
***
Celeste’s office smelled like lemon polish and money.
“I have a shift in an hour,” I said.
