He was hungry again. Our landlord remains mysteriously interested in money. Naomi lowered her voice. I know. Nia studied her sister's face.
You get any sleep? Does blinking count? No. Then no. Nia shook her head. But there was affection in it.
They walked together through the rain toward Harbor Street Community Kitchen. The kitchen occupied the ground floor of an aging brick building between a laundromat and a boarded storefront. Its sign had lost two letters years ago. The front windows didn't match. One radiator worked too hard while another barely worked at all.
But before sunrise, its windows glowed warm yellow against the wet street. Inside, people knew one another's names. That mattered to Nia. Morning girls, Denise Carter called. At 58, Denise ran the kitchen with the authority of someone who could stretch three trays of food into four without making anybody feel they had received less.
Nia hung up her coat. Coffee? Already made. Good coffee? Denise gave her a look.
Coffee? Naomi laughed softly. Then Denise reached for a metal pan beside the stove and jerked her hand back. Damn. Naomi was beside her immediately.
What happened? Nothing. Show me. It's a little burn. Denise.
Denise reluctantly held out her hand. A red patch crossed two fingers. Naomi guided her toward the sink. Cool running water. You just worked all night.
And your hand doesn't know that. Nia watched her sister carefully clean and dress the burn from supplies in her EMT bag. Naomi never hurried frightened people. That was one of the things Nia admired most about her. Even when Naomi's own life seemed to be collapsing one bill at a time, she could make somebody else feel as though they were the only person in the room.
Nothing serious? Naomi finally said. Keep it covered. If it blisters badly or the pain gets worse, get it checked. Denise flexed her fingers.
What do I owe you, doctor? I'm not a doctor. Fine. What do I owe you, exhausted bossy woman? Naomi zipped the medical pouch.
A cup of that questionable coffee. Done. By seven, the kitchen had filled with adult regulars coming in out of the rain. Nia worked behind the serving counter. Naomi should have gone home.
Instead, she stayed. She carried boxes from storage, wiped tables, found a dry pair of socks from the donation cabinet for Walter. Then Nia packed two meals into paper containers. Arthur? Naomi asked.
Nia nodded. Arthur Mills, 71, lived several blocks away. An injured ankle had made the walk difficult for him. I'll take them, Naomi said. You'll take yourself home.
Nia, you worked all night. So did you. I started two hours ago. Naomi considered that. Technicality.
Nia pulled up her hood. I'll be back before my bus. The rain had softened by the time she reached Arthur's building. He opened the door, leaning on a cane. You didn't have to bring this.