And for the first time that night, Trevor Hale stopped smiling. 36 hours earlier, Naomi Brooks had been standing beneath a different kind of rain. There had been no polished stone beneath her feet then. No glass athletic center glowing behind her. No circle of expensive jackets and raised phones.
Only East Baltimore before sunrise. Rain silvered the brick row houses along Harbor Street and gathered in broken places along the curb. A city bus groaned through the intersection. Breaks hissing as it stopped beneath a flickering street lamp. Across the road, a small diner glowed red and white through fogged windows.
Inside, somebody stacked coffee cups while silverware clinked against plates. Naomi stepped off the bus wearing the same faded navy EMT pants she would still be wearing 36 hours later. Her shoulders ached. She had been awake for nearly 20 hours. The overnight shift had begun with a warehouse worker experiencing chest pain and ended with an elderly man collapsing outside a 24 hour pharmacy.
Both men were adults. Both had been frightened. Naomi had stayed calm for them because calm was sometimes the only thing she had left to give. Her battered EMT bag bumped against her hip as she crossed the street. The zipper stuck halfway as usual.
The sneakers on her feet had long ago lost their clean white edges. At 27, Naomi sometimes felt much older. Morning superstar. Naomi looked toward the diner window. Walter Green, 68, sat beneath the awning with his coat buttoned high against the cold rain.
Walter, you look terrible. Thank you. I mean professionally terrible. Naomi smiled despite herself. Walter had been sleeping wherever he could since losing his apartment after the building changed ownership.
He never called himself homeless. He said he was between addresses as though the right words might preserve a piece of the life he'd had before. You eaten? Naomi asked. Walter immediately looked away.
That was answer enough. Come on. No ma'am. Walter, I have money. Good.
Save it. You work too hard to buy an old man breakfast. Naomi opened the diner door. Warm air smelling of coffee, bacon, and toasted bread rolled into the rain. You can argue outside, she said, or eat inside.
Walter sighed. You Brooks women are impossible. That sounds like a yes. Ten minutes later, Walter sat with eggs, toast, and hot coffee in front of him. Naomi paid at the register.
The bills she used had been folded inside an envelope marked rent. She stared at the remaining cash for a moment before closing it. Naomi, she turned. Nia stood in the doorway. Even people who knew them well sometimes needed a second glance.
Same face, same 27 years, same deep brown eyes. But Nia carried warmth closer to the surface. Naomi had learned to hide hers behind exhaustion. Nia wore a plain dark coat over her work clothes and her repaired canvas bag hung from one shoulder. You bought him breakfast again.