"I can't just add random people to my son's pickup list!"
"I'm not random," he says, sounding almost offended. "I'm—" He stops, seemingly at a loss for how to define what exactly he is to us.
I shake my head, feeling a hysterical laugh bubble up. "This is crazy. Last night you saved us from muggers, and now you want to be on my son's school pickup list? Who are you, Franco?"
He doesn't answer, just resumes climbing the stairs, his arm still supporting me. By the time we reach my door, I'm breathing heavily, as much from the confusion of this bizarre situation as from the exertion.
I fumble with my keys, aware of his presence beside me, solid and unwavering. When I finally get the door open, I turn to face him, unsure of what comes next.
"Thank you for the ride," I say. "And for... whatever you did to get me time off."
He nods, his eyes moving past me to scan my apartment. It's small and cluttered with the evidence of our rushed morning. Tommy's pajamas tossed over the back of the couch, breakfast dishes in the sink, and a pile of unfolded laundry on the coffee table. I resist the urge to apologize for the mess.
"You should elevate that foot. Ice it for twenty minutes, then take it off for twenty. Repeat," Franco says, his gaze returning to my face. "Do you have groceries? Pain relievers?"
"I'm fine," I say, the response I've given to every inquiry about my well-being for the past five years. "I can manage."
Franco's eyes narrow slightly, like he doesn't believe me but won't argue. "I'll check on you later."
"You don't need to do that."
"I know." He turns to leave, then pauses. "Your son. Where is his school?"
I hesitate. Giving this man—this stranger with dangerous connections and unexplained interest in us—information about Tommy's whereabouts feels like crossing a line. But he already knows where we live, where I work. I’m sure he could easily find the school. And he did save us…
"Sunshine Elementary," I say finally. "On Powell Street. He gets out at 3:15."
Franco nods, absorbing this information. "Rest your ankle."
Then he's gone, his footsteps fading down the stairs, leaving me standing in my doorway with more questions than answers.
I close the door and lock it, then limp to the couch, elevating my ankle on a cushion as Franco suggested. The quiet of the apartment feels strange. I'm never here during weekday mornings. Always rushing from one job to the next, dropping Tommy off, picking him up, a constant cycle of barely keeping our heads above water.
Three days off. With pay. It seems impossible, a gift I can't afford to question too closely. I should call my mother, let her know she doesn’t need to pick up Tommy today.
I reach for my phone and dial her number, rehearsing what I'll say. Certainly not the truth—that a mysterious, dangerous man arranged for me to have time off after saving us from muggers just less than 48 hours ago. Mom would have a heart attack.
"Sarah?" she answers on the third ring. "Is everything okay? Aren't you at work?"
"Hi, Mom. Everything's fine. I, uh, twisted my ankle two days ago, and my boss gave me a few days off to rest it."
"Rosie did that? The same Rosie who made you work with the flu last winter?"
I wince. "She's trying to be better about workplace conditions. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I'll be picking up Tommy today. Is that okay?" I lie.
"Of course, sweetheart. Are you sure you're okay? Do you need me to bring you anything? Groceries? I can make some of that chicken soup you like."
The offer is tempting. Mom's soup is one of the few childhood comforts I still allow myself. But accepting would mean answering more questions about my injury, about why Rosie suddenly developed a conscience.
"I'm fine, really. Just need to stay off it for a bit."
We talk for a few more minutes before she has to go. She's watching her neighbor's baby this morning for extra cash, just like I did side jobs when Tommy was smaller. The hustle is hereditary in our family.
After we hang up, I lean back on the couch, the silence of the apartment settling around me like a strange blanket. When was the last time I was home alone on a weekday morning? Before Tommy was born, certainly.
I close my eyes, intending just to rest them for a moment. The next thing I know, I'm jerking awake to the sound of knocking. Disoriented, I check my phone—12:37 PM. I've been asleep for almost four hours.
The knocking comes again, more insistent this time. I struggle to my feet, wincing as weight hits my injured ankle, and limp to the door. Through the peephole, I see Franco standing in the hallway, holding what looks like grocery bags.
