I don’t like the sound of that at all. “Um… what?”
“How nice is it?” she repeats. “Is it expensive?”
Again, the question unsettles me. I suddenly wonder if coming here was the right choice. But again, what options do I have left?
“It’s not too expensive,” I say carefully. “But it’s new.”
“Well, let’s hope no one decides they want it.”
“I… what do you mean?” I ask.
The woman looks at me with a pitying expression. “You’re new to this, aren’t you?” she asks bluntly.
I hesitate. Apparently, that’s all the answer she needs, because she just nods and continues.
“You’re lucky that none of the women in there have babies,” she informs me. “So the likelihood of them stealing your son’s items is minimal. But if it’s nice stuff they can sell… Well, just watch out for your things.”
I flinch a little, but nod. “Okay.”
“Come on,” she says. “Follow me. My name is Maisie, by the way.”
I glance at her as we go, thinking that Maisie is not a name that suits her in the slightest. She holds herself confidently, but there’s a no-nonsense vibe about her that is probably very necessary when it comes to running this shelter.
The broad corridor has doors on either side. Some are open and I can see bunk beds stacked high, one on top of the other.
Other rooms are emptier, filled with old sofas and a few board games have certainly seen better days.
We round the corner and Maisie ushers me into a large room with five bunk beds arranged in an awkward formation. There are two windows set at opposite ends of the space but somehow, they don’t bring in much light.
Or maybe that is just a matter of perspective.
There are about six or seven women in the room when we walk in. I’m struck by how worn and tired each one looks.
But when I look close, I see that they’re not that old at all. Most are my age at most, if not younger.
Is that what I’ll look like in a few months?
Maisie leads me to a bunk in the farthest corner of the room. There’s a woman lying on the bottom mattress.
She’s got a shaved head, which highlights the bruises and scrapes that line her scalp. In some places, it actually looks like she’s pulled her hair right out.
Her eyes are beautiful—a deep, chocolate brown—but they’re filled with pure malice as she looks me up and down.
“Who’s she?” she asks. Her question is directed at Maisie, as if I’m not even here.
“Tonya,” Maisie sighs, “this is…”
She turns to me, realizing that she doesn’t actually know my name.
“Oh… uh, Emily,” I offer quickly.
“Emily,” Maisie repeats. She turns back to Tonya. “She’s our newest addition.”
“Fuck,” Tonya scowls, her face twisted with instant dislike. “What a princess this bitch is.”
I flinch as if she’d slapped me.
The last few months have humbled me, pulled me down to earth, and reminded me of how bad most people had it.