I walk through the double doors that lead to the belly of the shelter. I open the letter gingerly, as if I expect something horrible. A note falls out with a key. When I unfold the letter, bills drift to the floor. I snatch them up greedily as I read.
Take a quick shower and get yourself to the hospital. I’ve drawn a map on the back. June-Bug is asking for you – no baby. I’ve no idea how you fell in with this group, but they know you know me. Noname. Clever. See you soon.
That was it. Well, that and a map. The money is presumptively for fare. I don’t want to shower first. The only scenarios I can imagine involving June-Bug and a hospital are bad ones. No baby. What does that mean? She lost the baby?
They asked for me. What does that mean?
My brain refuses to slow down. It’s already a hundred divergent pathways ahead of my body. Fumbling with the key, I make my way into a single room. And I can’t even enjoy it.
I catch sight of a change of clothes, toiletries, a coffee pot, and a basket overflowing with food. The familiar lump of guilt settles in my stomach. I’m certain mine is the only room boasting such pleasantries. But I haven’t time for guilt just now.
In ten minutes, I’m heading back out the double doors. My hair is still wet but short enough not to be soggy. I chomp the apple I brought with me, allow a measure of worry over leaving my stuff behind, and hail a taxi.