Subtract rent, subtract the payment plan, subtract bus fare for two weeks, $90 left for everything else. She opened the fridge. A carton of eggs with three left, half a jug of milk, some wilted lettuce she should have thrown out days ago. That was it. Her stomach had been empty since lunch, but she’d learned to ignore that feeling.
She’d eat tomorrow or the day after. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the bread and peanut butter. Enough for another week of sandwiches for George. Maybe two weeks if she stretched it. Aaliyah closed the fridge and leaned against it, pressing her forehead to the cold metal door. She could stop. She could keep the sandwiches for herself, save the coffee money, catch up on the electric bill before they shut it off.
George would understand. He’d probably tell her to stop anyway if he knew how tight things were. But the thought of walking past that bus stop, seeing him there, not stopping, she couldn’t do it. At the hospital cafeteria the next day, Mrs. Carter noticed. Mrs. Carter was the kitchen supervisor, 60-some Chinese American, with the kind of sharp eyes that saw everything.
She’d worked at the hospital for 30 years and had seen every version of struggling that existed.
“Are you eating today?” Mrs. Carter asked, watching Aaliyah wipe down tables during the lunch rush.
“I ate breakfast,” Aaliyah lied.
“Uh-huh.” Mrs. Carter crossed her arms. “Are you feeding that homeless man again?”
Aaliyah’s shoulders stiffened.
“His name is George.”
“I know his name, honey. I’m asking if you’re feeding him instead of yourself.”
“I’m fine.”
Mrs. Carter sighed. She disappeared into the kitchen and came back five minutes later with a container of leftover pasta and a bread roll. She pressed it into Aaliyah’s hands.
“You eat this now. I don’t want to see you passing out on my shift.” Her voice softened. “He’s a person. I get it. But you know what else? You’re a person, too.”
Aaliyah stared at the container. Her throat felt tight.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Just eat.”
That night, lying on her mattress on the floor, she’d sold the bed frame two months ago to make rent. Aaliyah stared at the ceiling and did the math again. If she skipped her Thursday class, she could pick up an extra shift at the grocery store, another $40. If she walked to work instead of taking the bus three days a week, she’d save $12. If she asked the landlord for one more week, her phone buzzed.
A text from the electric company. Final notice. Service will be disconnected in seven days without payment of $127. Aaliyah closed her eyes. One more week of bringing George breakfast. That’s all she’d commit to. One more week and then she’d have to stop. She’d explain it to him. He’d understand. She had to take care of herself first. That’s what anyone would say.
That’s what made sense. But when Friday morning came, Aaliyah still made two sandwiches, still poured coffee into the thermos, still walked three blocks to the bus stop. George was waiting, same as always. And when he split his sandwich in half and handed part of it back to her,
“Fair is fair,” he said simply.
Aaliyah had to turn away so he wouldn’t see her crying. George wasn’t at the bus stop on Monday morning. Aaliyah stood there with the sandwich and thermos, scanning the empty sidewalk. His cardboard was gone. His trash bag of belongings gone. Even the damp spot where he usually slept had dried up, leaving no trace he’d ever been there.
