She was thin, younger than Wendell expected, maybe in her early thirties, but illness had pulled the youth from her face. One hand gripped the doorframe. The other pressed against her chest. She wore a faded yellow robe and looked at the SUV as if it were a storm cloud rolling toward her house.
Jaylen climbed out quickly.
“Mama, it’s okay,” he called. “His car broke down. I fixed it.”
The woman’s eyes moved from Jaylen to Wendell.
Wendell stepped out with both hands visible, suddenly aware of how every inch of him announced money, intrusion, and danger.
“Ma’am,” he said. “Wendell Hayes. Your son helped me out of a difficult situation.”
“Jaylen,” she said, her voice rough. “Come here.”
The boy went to her and handed her the medicine.
Her fingers trembled around the bottle.
Wendell saw the label.
Not enough to read everything, but enough to recognize the shape of a serious prescription. Heart medication. The kind that became terrifying when money ran out.
