Yes, I did. No, you didn't. Then pretend I was walking by carrying two hot meals for no reason. Arthur laughed. You and that sister of yours.
Nia set the containers on his small kitchen table. You doing okay? Better now. She stayed long enough to make sure he could safely move around the apartment, then hurried back toward Harbor Street. Her first bus to Wellington came at 812.
If she missed it, she would miss the connection downtown. When Nia returned to the community kitchen, Naomi was sitting alone at a back table staring at a folded notice. Nia didn't need to ask what it was. Rent? Naomi folded it smaller.
We'll manage. We always say that. We always do. There had been a time when Naomi had owned better shoes, a better coat, a quiet apartment with a window overlooking a narrow park. Then came her difficult transition out of military service, unstable employment, and a landlord who suddenly found reasons why a black woman with irregular shift work was no longer the kind of tenant he wanted.
Naomi had fought it until fighting cost more than leaving. Nia knew that losing the apartment had wounded her sister more deeply than Naomi admitted, not because of the rooms, because Naomi had spent years serving people who would never know her name, only to discover how quickly a resume, a uniform, and years of contribution could disappear behind somebody else's assumptions. Nia had scars of her own. She had lost a hotel job after refusing to accept degrading treatment from a supervisor. Officially, the reason had been poor cultural fit.
She still hated those three words, yet neither sister had become bitter. Perhaps stubborn kindness was the only revenge they trusted. You'll miss your bus, Naomi said. Nia checked the wall clock. Oh no.
She grabbed her canvas bag. As she lifted it, Naomi's battered EMT bag tipped from the neighboring chair. The zipper slid open. Something struck the table. A coin.
Nia stopped. It was heavier than an ordinary coin, black and silver. Its edges worn smooth from years of handling. Stamped across its face were the words Maryland National Guard, combatives. Nia picked it up.
Naomi went still. I haven't seen this in a while. Naomi gently took it from her. You still carry it? Yes.
Why? For a moment, Naomi's thumb rested over the worn lettering. Something passed behind her eyes. Grief, perhaps, or memory. Then she placed the coin back inside the EMT bag and pulled the stubborn zipper closed.
Some things remind you who you are, Naomi said quietly, when other people decide who you are for you. Nia waited. Naomi offered nothing more. Outside, a bus hissed to a stop. Nia looked toward the window.
My bus. Go. Nia hurried to the door. Nia. She turned.
Naomi held up the lunch container Denise had packed for her. You forgot this. Nia smiled and took it. Get some sleep. Get to class.