Her hair, cut in a sharp, modern bob, was plastered to her cheekbones. She didn't look like the usual wanderers on this side of town. There was no desperate manic energy in her eyes, only a hollow, echoing vacancy. She looked like someone who had been dropped out of a plane and was still waiting to hit the ground. "It's 32° out here," Abelardo said.
She stared at his boots. She didn't speak. "The shelters are full 6," Abelardo continued, shifting Melissa slightly. The little girl stirred, opening one sleepy eye to look at the woman before burying her face back in his jacket. And the cops will just move you along.
If they see you sleeping here, you'll freeze. I Her voice broke. It was barely a whisper. Dry and cracked like old paper. I don't have my phone.
It was a strange response. Not a plea for money, not a request for shelter. A statement of displaced priority. Abalardo sighed. The wind whipped down the alley, rattling the metal grade of the laundromat.
He looked at his apartment building 50 yards away. The yellow light of the vestibule flickered. He thought about his cramped living room. He thought about the unwashed dishes. He thought about his own safety and Melissa's.
But he also remembered a night 3 years ago when his car had broken down in Ohio. Melissa screaming in the back seat, his bank account completely overdrawn, and a stranger in a tow truck had pulled over in the freezing snow and towed them 30 m for free. "I live right there," Abalardo said, nodding toward the brick building. "Unita 2B, I have a couch. It's not much, but the radiator works.
You can sleep there tonight. Leave in the morning. " The woman finally looked at his face. Her eyes were sharp, scanning him with a sudden inongruous intensity. She looked at his tired eyes, the cheap fabric of his coat, the sleeping child in his arms. She was calculating the risk.
Why? She asked. Because if I leave you here, I won't be able to sleep, Abalardo said bluntly. And I really need to sleep. Come on, before I change my mind.
The apartment smelled like stale cinnamon and boiled pasta. Abalardo unlocked the deadbolt, pushed the door open with his shoulder, and ushered the woman inside. He didn't turn on the overhead lights. They were too harsh. He clicked on the small brass lamp near the television.
The yellow glow revealed the cramped reality of his life. A faded blue sofa, a small television sitting on a milk crate, a kitchen table completely covered in crayons and construction paper. The woman stood frozen by the door, dripping onto the cheap lenolium. Under the light, Abalardo could see the details he'd missed in the dark. Her coat was ruined, stained with mud and slashed at the hem, but the cut of it was impeccable.