The alarm clock on Aaliyah Cooper’s phone buzzed at 5:00 AM, a harsh, vibrating intrusion into the few hours of sleep she managed to steal.
She rolled over on the mattress that lay directly on the floor—she had sold the frame two months ago for sixty dollars—and stared at the water stain on the ceiling. It was shaped like a cloud, or maybe a bruised lung. It was hard to tell in the gray light of dawn.
Aaliyah was twenty-two years old. She had $14.50 in her checking account. Her rent was three weeks late. Her student loans were in forbearance, her electric bill was pink-slipped, and her refrigerator contained half a jar of peanut butter, a loaf of white bread, and two bananas that were turning aggressively brown.
She dragged herself up. Her back ached from her double shift at the hospital cafeteria and the grocery store stocking job that followed. Her feet felt like they were made of lead.
In the tiny kitchenette, she went through the ritual. Two slices of bread. A thick smear of peanut butter. She folded it, wrapped it in a paper towel. She poured black coffee into a battered thermos she’d found at Goodwill.
She made one sandwich. Not for herself.
