Instead, the car stopped in front of a deteriorating apartment building on the east side of Dayton, its brick facade cracked and stained, its entrance smelling of damp concrete and cigarette smoke.
“You can stay here for now,” Richard said. “A coworker owns the unit. You will pay a symbolic amount. Do not say we abandoned you.”
The building had no elevator. Climbing the stairs felt like slow torture. Each step pulled at my incision. Each breath felt shallow and painful. Linda went ahead carrying the baby bag. Richard followed behind, scrolling through messages. No one offered me a hand.
Inside, the apartment was nearly empty. A thin mattress lay directly on the floor. A plastic chair leaned against the wall. A small, unstable table supported a chipped lamp. The air smelled of mold and old tobacco.
“This is temporary,” Linda said briskly. “You will manage.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Richard cut me off.
“Do not start,” he said. “You have a roof. Evan cannot miss this opportunity.”
When they left, the silence pressed down on me. My hands trembled as I lowered myself onto the mattress, clutching Aaron close to my chest. Pain radiated through my body, and fear settled deep in my bones.