She lay awake staring at the ceiling, thinking about rent, tuition payments, and the long hours of cleaning she would continue to work. Yet she also remembered Dorothy’s frightened eyes and knew she would make the same choice again.
The next morning at 8:10, someone knocked on the apartment door. Megan assumed it was the landlord or a delivery, but when she opened it she stopped breathing for a second.
A tall man in a tailored suit stood in the narrow hallway, and a black sedan idled at the curb behind him. He removed his sunglasses and offered a polite nod.
“Are you Megan Callahan?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied cautiously.
“My name is Patrick O’Connell,” he continued. “I came to thank you for helping my mother yesterday.”
Megan’s shoulders relaxed instantly. “Is she okay?”
“She is stable,” Patrick said. “It was a mild concussion, and she is already asking questions about the young nurse who stayed with her.”
Megan exhaled slowly, relief washing over her. Patrick glanced past her into the modest apartment, noticing the peeling paint, the small plastic table, and Harper’s backpack hanging from a nail.