That got a laugh out of him. She poured herself coffee instead. Ruth saw the exchange from the kitchen. She said nothing. At 9:00, they locked the front doors.
Helen Carter, 71, stood beneath the awning, pulling her coat tighter against the cold. Her bus stop was two blocks away. I can manage. Helen told Maya. I know you always say that right before ignoring me.
It's one of my better qualities. They walked together on from the laundromat washed the wet sidewalk blue and pink. Cars hissed over rain. Dark pavement at the corner. Helen looked at Maya's worn coat.
You're going to freeze in that thing. I'm from Cincinnati. That does not make you weatherproof. Maya laughed. The bus headlights appeared down the street.
Helen touched Maya lightly on the arm. You've got a good heart. Mia looked away. Compliments made her more uncomfortable than insults. Bus is coming.
I can see that. Helen smiled. You let people take care of you sometimes, too. You hear? The doors opened.
Maya waited until Helen was safely aboard before turning back. Only then did she realize how hungry she was. She walked the two blocks to second table, collected her bag, and caught the late bus toward the small room she was renting. The city slid past the window again. Rain, traffic lights, a 24-hour pharmacy, a restaurant being cleaned after closing.
She thought about her father, about the apartment she'd lost, about Angela Brooks. Her mother had been 51 when she died, and Maya had already been an adult. What Mia remembered most clearly wasn't the hospital. It was coffee. Angela waiting outside evening practice with an old red thermos balanced between her hands.
Maya had once come out furious after a bad training session, complaining about another competitor. Angela had listened, then she'd said, "Never let somebody else decide who you become in an angry moment." At the time, Maya had rolled her eyes. Years later, she could still hear every word. The bus stopped.
Maya got off and walked the final block home. At 10:37, she placed her battered gym bag beside the bed. She checked her alarm. 2:00 a.m. Most people who saw Maya Brooks on the number 17 saw an exhausted scholarship student in an old coat. At second table, they saw someone who fixed shelves and gave away dinner.
At Caldwell, people would soon see whatever their assumptions allowed them to see. Almost nobody knew about the other Maya, the one who woke before the city, the one who entered an empty practice room while Caldwell still slept, the one who carried something inside that battered bag she had never needed strangers to understand. At 4:32 the next morning, the alarm sounded once. Maya opened her eyes immediately. No snooze, no bargaining.
She sat up in the dark, reached for the water bottle beside the bed, and took three slow drinks while the radiator clicked somewhere beneath the window. Outside, Cincinnati was still mostly black. A delivery truck groaned through the intersection below. Somewhere farther west, a train horn drifted across the river air. Maya dressed without turning on the overhead light.
Black training pants, gray t-shirt, sweatshirt, then the battered canvas bag. She checked the zipper automatically, still holding. At 4:48, she was back on the number 17. The bus was nearly empty. A nurse in blue scrubs sat near the front, eyes closed.
A warehouse worker in a reflective vest stared through the window with a thermos between both hands. The driver gave Maya the same sleepy nod he'd given her three mornings in a row. By the time the bus climbed toward Caldwell, a pale strip of blue had begun to show behind the buildings. The university looked different before sunrise without the movement of students and golf carts and tours. The limestone buildings seemed older, more honest, somehow.
Maya crossed the quad alone. Her shoes made a soft rhythm against the brick path. At 501, she unlocked the side entrance to the athletic building with the access card issued through her scholarship program. At 503, the practice room lights came on. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead.