Chapter 2
Noah did not trust me.
That made me trust him more.
He walked three steps ahead of me through the park, looking back every few seconds to make sure I was still there and not too close.
Malcolm followed behind us, unhappy.
“You should let me call the car,” he muttered.
“No.”
“Sir, we don’t know where he’s taking us.”
I looked at Noah’s torn shoes.
“Yes, we do.”
We were going toward the part of the city people like me pretended did not exist.
Away from glass towers.
Away from restaurants where one dinner cost more than a family’s groceries.
Toward narrow streets, shuttered stores, and buildings with broken buzzers.
Noah stopped outside a corner pharmacy.
“This is where I get it,” he said.
I opened the door.
Warm air rushed out.
The pharmacist looked up and immediately frowned when he saw Noah.
“I told you,” the man said.
“No credit.”
Noah’s shoulders curled inward.
“I have money now.”
The pharmacist’s eyes moved to me.
Then Malcolm.
His expression changed.
Not kinder.
Careful.
“What medication?” I asked.
The pharmacist cleared his throat.
“Heart pills. Blood pressure. Antibiotic from urgent care.”
“For Rose Reyes?”
“Yes.”
“How long has she gone without them?”
He looked away.
“I don’t know.”
Noah whispered, “Three days.”
I turned to the pharmacist.
“You let a sick elderly woman miss heart medication over forty dollars?”
His face reddened.
“That’s not how pharmacies work, sir.”
“No,” I said.
“That is exactly how they work. That is the problem.”
I paid for the medication.
All of it.
Then I told Malcolm to get the car.
Noah clutched the white pharmacy bag to his chest.
“You said only forty.”
“I changed my mind.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“Because I can.”
He did not like that answer.
Good.
Children who had been let down by adults often recognized charity as another form of control.
We drove to a run-down apartment building in Queens.
Noah sat in the back seat, silent, one hand on the door handle as if ready to flee.
When we reached the building, he said, “You don’t have to come up.”
“I know.”
“She doesn’t like strangers.”
“I will stand in the hall.”
He looked at me.
“Rich strangers are worse.”
I almost smiled.
“You may be right.”
The elevator was broken.
Of course it was.
We climbed four flights slowly.
My lungs protested.
My pride protested more.
Noah unlocked the apartment door.
“Grandma?”
A weak voice answered from inside.
“Baby?”
He ran in.
I stayed at the threshold.
The apartment was small and cold.
A blanket covered the window.
A kettle sat on a hot plate.
Rose Reyes lay on a narrow bed near the radiator, thinner than memory but still unmistakable.
She saw me over Noah’s shoulder.
Her eyes widened.
Then filled.
“Arthur Alden.”
My hand tightened on my cane.
“Rose.”
Noah looked between us.
“You know him?”
Rose tried to sit up.
Noah rushed to help her.
I stepped inside despite myself.
Thirty years vanished in one breath.
“You were a nurse at St. Vincent’s,” I said.
“You saved my son.”
Rose smiled faintly.
“You remember.”
“I remember everything.”
Her face changed.
“No,” she whispered.
“You don’t.”
The room went quiet.
Noah clutched the medicine bag.
“What does that mean?”
May you like
Rose looked at me with fear I had never seen in her before.
“It means,” she said softly, “your family still owes mine the truth.”
