He was nineteen and had learned to worry about money before most people learned to budget.
Our apartment occupied the third floor of a converted printing warehouse across town.
The radiator clicked like a nervous clock, and the kitchen window rattled whenever a truck passed.
Owen stood beside the stove holding a packet of instant noodles.
He looked at the empty space where my apron usually hung and understood before I explained.
I told him I had been fired for feeding a stranger.
He asked whether Graham could legally do that.
I said the answer was probably complicated, and that complicated answers rarely paid rent quickly.
Owen pushed the noodles toward me and told me to eat first.
I tried to laugh, but the day’s exhaustion caught me halfway through.
My brother had inherited our mother’s stubborn eyes and her ability to notice when I was hiding fear.
He asked what had happened after the firing.
I told him about Arthur, Rusk, the lawyer, and the veterans’ fund.
Owen grew silent when I mentioned the old clinic.
He said the redevelopment company had recently posted a survey notice on our building’s front door.
I found the paper beneath a stack of advertising flyers.
It announced a proposed change to pedestrian access and listed a hearing the following Wednesday.
The address was ours.
I read it twice before I understood that my lost job and our uncertain lease might be connected to the same company.
Owen asked whether we should call the lawyer.
I told him not until we understood what the notice actually meant.
He nodded, but I could see he was already imagining another move and another school transfer.
I unfolded the paper beside the rent notice and realized that tomorrow would require more than searching for a new job.
For the first time, I wanted to know exactly what Daniel Rusk had been purchasing along the river.
Chapter 6: A Visit to the Clinic
The following morning, I walked to the abandoned clinic rather than the employment office.
Its brick doorway was boarded over, but the old bronze plaque remained beside the steps.
The plaque listed twelve donors who had returned from military service and wanted their neighborhood to have medical care.
Arthur Bellamy’s father appeared near the bottom.
A security fence enclosed the courtyard where my mother used to bring us for vaccinations.
I had forgotten the painted hopscotch squares until I saw their faded outlines beneath the fence.
