“No, sweetheart. Just a little tired.”
She filled the kettle and made coffee she didn’t actually want. The refrigerator hummed behind her, decorated with Ethan’s crayon drawings and a row of clipped bills: rent, electricity, after-school care.
Numbers that never cared about kindness.
That afternoon, she checked her email once.
Then twice.
Then she stopped.
If they were interested, they would have called by now.
The next morning came faster than she was ready for.
She was kneeling to tie Ethan’s shoelaces when her phone vibrated across the counter. Unknown number.
Her stomach tightened.
“Hello?”
“Is this Hannah Brooks?” a composed male voice asked.
“Yes, this is she.”
“My name is Daniel Whitaker.”
The name meant nothing — until it suddenly did.
“My mother fell yesterday at the Atlantic Avenue station. You stayed with her.”
Hannah straightened.
“Oh. Yes. Is she okay?”
“She’s stable,” he replied. “Mild concussion, some bruising. The doctors said she was fortunate someone with medical training was there.”
Hannah closed her eyes briefly, relief washing through her.
“I’m glad she’s alright.”
There was a brief pause on the line.