Maybe they weren't. Grief had taught her that sometimes you imagined attention because you were carrying something invisible and couldn't understand why no one else seemed able to see its weight. Still, Hawthorne had a way of making money visible. Names were carved everywhere, on buildings, on benches, on plaques beside trees. Families she had never heard of had their names stamped into stone as though they had been here longer than the college itself.
Maya passed a polished bronze directory and found Aldrich Hall. Her dorm room was on the third floor. No elevator. By the time she reached it, her palms were sore from the suitcase handles. The door stood open.
Inside, a young black woman was pinning photographs above the opposite desk. She turned. You must be Maya. Rachel Morgan. Rachel was 21.
Warm-faced, quick moving, and surrounded by the organized chaos of someone who had been living there long enough to know exactly where everything belonged. She looked at the suitcases. "That's all you brought?" Maya glanced down. "That's all I need."
Rachel seemed to realize the question had landed somewhere she hadn't intended. "Okay," she said simply. "Your sides by the window." Maya liked her immediately for not trying to repair the moment. Her half of the room held a narrow bed, a desk, a dresser, and a square window overlooking the rear courtyard.
Wasn't much, but the key in Maya's hand belonged to her. For now, that mattered. By 5 that afternoon, she had unpacked. By 5:30, she was back at the bus stop. Hawthorne's scholarship covered tuition and part of her housing.
It did not cover the rest of her life. Brooks Corner Cafe sat 20 minutes away in South Lyndon between a laundromat and a small grocery store with handwritten specials taped inside the window. The sign above the cafe had once been read. Years of Ohio weather had faded it closer to rust. Inside, everything was warm.
Yellow pendant lights hung above the counter. Coffee smelled stronger than the cleaning solution. Plates clicked through the kitchen window. A small radio played old soul music low enough that conversation could live over it. Helen Brooks looked up as Maya came through the door.
63. Silver threaded through her short dark hair. Helen had owned the place for 27 years and could carry three plates in one hand without looking down. You're late. Maya checked the clock.
2 minutes exactly. Bus stopped on Livingston. Helen stared at her another second. Then one corner of her mouth moved. I'm messing with you.
Put your apron on. Maya exhaled. That's cruel. College made you soft already. I've been there 6 hours.
See? Soft. For the first time that day, Maya almost smiled. She tied on her apron. Work helped.
Orders had beginnings and endings. Coffee needed pouring. Tables needed wiping. People needed food. There was comfort in problems small enough to solve.
Near 7, Walter Green came in. Walter was 71, a retired factory worker with a brown wool coat that had been repaired at both elbows. He always sat at the end of the counter and ordered meatloaf on Wednesdays, whether it was Wednesday or not. That night, his debit card declined. He tried again, declined.
Walter's face changed, not dramatically. That was why Maya noticed. He looked toward Helen, then toward the door. "Must have mixed up which account I used," he said. "I'll come back tomorrow."
Maya looked at his untouched plate. "You already ordered. I'll settle it later." She took out her employee meal card. Walter frowned.