“Elena,” the voice on the other end said, the tone measured and steady. “It is Russell Wade.”
Outside, the first heavy drops of an autumn rain began to strike the thick glass pane of the door.
“Yes, Mr. Wade,” I said, holding the plastic receiver tightly against my cheek.
“I would like to take you to lunch today,” he said. “There is a quiet place on Broad Street where we can talk.”
I looked down at my hands, the skin dry from the industrial soap we used to scrub the counters.
I had exactly six dollars left in my purse, and my landlord was waiting for the rest of the rent.
“I have a shift until two,” I said.
“I will have a car wait for you at the corner,” Russell said.
I stared at the phone as the rain hit the glass, wondering why a man with silver at his temples cared about my aching feet.
