Mike tapped his chest once—like a promise—and walked out into the snow.
Their engines faded into the distance.
And Keisha stood in her doorway, watching the white morning swallow them whole.
When she opened the envelope, her knees almost gave out.
More cash than she’d seen in months.
Enough to breathe.
Enough to fix the heater.
Enough to pay the bill collectors just to make them stop calling.
Tucked inside was a note, written in careful block letters:
For Mama Keisha. You showed us what family looks like. We won’t forget.
For the first time in a long time, Keisha went to sleep believing tomorrow might not crush her.
Three days later, Marcus got sick.
Not just a sniffle.
A fever that made him whimper and cling to her neck, skin hot like a little furnace.
Keisha stared at the remaining money on her table and felt the old panic return.
