I tried anyway. I ate one meal a day, usually oatmeal because it was cheap and filling. I skipped medications, alternating which ones I could afford each month and praying I’d chosen correctly. I sat in the dark at night to save electricity. I wore every sweater I owned layered together in winter instead of turning on the heat.
The landlord still wanted his rent. The utility company still wanted payment. The pharmacy still refused to hand over inhalers without money.
I lasted three months before I had to make the call I’d been dreading.
The phone felt impossibly heavy in my hand. Shame burned hotter than any fever.
“Deacon,” I said when he answered. “I need help.”
The silence on the other end stretched so long I checked to see if the call had dropped.
“What kind of help?” he finally asked, his voice careful and professional, like I was a client rather than his mother.
