That afternoon, she rummages through the lost property.
Three shirts and a pair of pants are all I brought with me.
She finds me something clean to wear.
It’s a little big, but it will do.
???
By week four, I’m fairly certain that Beth has no intention of contacting my dad.
Not now, not ever.
I can stay as long as I behave myself, which I do.
And this morning when I open my door, a parcel is waiting at my feet.
Hope these are your size,says the inky pen on the note.
New clothes.
Never worn by anyone else.
Not from a well intentioned family two blocks over, or a church sale.
Real clothes from an actual store.
A blue W logo on each bag.
An online credit note for more than a hundred dollars.
The shame that briefly rears its head is soon eclipsed by a thank you.
A thank you so big that I can barely hold it in my chest.
I lug the box indoors before anyone can see me cry.
The pants and shirts fit perfectly.
The pajamas too.
Underneath the bags I find a smaller box.
A pair of sneakers. A new toothbrush.
A thick wad of socks and underwear.
She’s even bought me an electric razor, now that my face has begun to heal.
I lay on the bed, tags still on, grinning so wide it hurts.
“Here, let me grab the scissors,” she laughs.
I’ve come back from serving a table with cardboard dangling from my collar.
“And there's something else, too. Consider it a late birthday gift.”
Beth hands me a small plastic rectangle.
