“No.”
Lauren looked at the floor.
“I am so tired of doing the right thing and being punished for it.”
Denise squeezed her hand.
“That’s not what happened.”
“It feels like it.”
“It feels like life is cruel. That’s different.”
Lauren laughed again, smaller this time.
“Not a huge difference from where I’m sitting.”
Denise turned her face toward the window.
Dark had settled outside.
The glass reflected the room back at them, tired and yellow and small.
“When you were little,” Denise said, “do you remember the woman outside that church in Kentucky?”
Lauren frowned.
It took her a second.
Then she did remember.
Very faintly.
A parking lot.
Summer heat.
A folding table with paper cups of lemonade.
A woman with red lipstick and cigarette-stained fingers.
“She gave us sandwiches,” Lauren said.
Denise nodded.
“She gave us sandwiches and told me not to apologize for being hungry.”
