Maya asked. Earl looked up. You trying to spoil me again? Two slices isn't spoiling. Depends on the bread.
Maya smiled and brought him three. A few minutes later, she noticed 68-year-old Linda Hayes standing beside the beverage station with one hand pressed against the counter. Linda volunteered three nights a week, usually moving faster than people half her age. Tonight she wasn't moving at all. Maya set down the tray she was carrying.
Linda, I'm fine, honey. You don't look fine. Linda tried to laugh, then swayed. Maya was beside her immediately. She guided Linda into a chair, brought water, and crouched beside her rather than making a scene.
Slow breaths. I skipped lunch, Linda admitted. Then we're fixing that. Maya brought her a plate from the kitchen and stayed until the color returned to Linda's face. You should be eating yourself, Linda said.
I will. You always say that. And eventually I'm right. Linda smiled. There was no audience for any of it.
No applause, no camera. That was the point. Near closing time, the kitchen manager found Maya pushing a mop across the floor. You've already done your shift. I know, we can pay you for the extra hour.
Maya shook her head. Save it for groceries. The manager studied her. You're a college freshman. You need money too.
Maya looked around at the nearly empty room. Earl had tucked two leftover rolls into a paper napkin for breakfast. Linda was washing her own plate, despite being told twice to leave it. I've got enough tonight, Maya said. It wasn't entirely true, but it was true enough.
Outside, Richmond had turned dark and humid. Maya sat beneath the bus shelter while traffic hissed along wet pavement from a brief evening shower. She finally called Walter, he answered on the second ring. College girl, Maya smiled despite herself. Retired mechanic, that Mr. retired mechanic to you.
For a minute, they talked about ordinary things, her room, her classes, the bus system, whether she'd eaten. Walter knew her too well to let ordinary things hide the rest. What happened? Maya stared at the reflection of passing headlights in the glass shelter. What makes you think something happened?
You've called me almost every Sunday for two years. Today is Monday. She looked down, a tiny smile came and went. There was this guy, Walter said nothing, Maya told him. Not dramatically, she described Tyler's joke, the laughter, the hand in her hair, then she told Walter the part that mattered.
I almost did something, but you didn't. No. Were you in danger? Not really, could you leave? Yes. Then you made the right call.
Maya leaned her head against the cool glass. It didn't feel right. Oh, Walter said. Sometimes it doesn't. He made me look weak.
Walter was quiet for a moment, then his voice softened. Maya, you remember when we lost the house? She did. Walter's workplace injury had cut his hours and then his income. Their rented house disappeared from their lives faster than Maya had believed a home could.