I didn't know whether I had any legal right to make that promise.
I didn't know what waited inside apartment 2B.
I only knew one thing.
I couldn't watch another person disappear.
Not if I could help it.
We crossed the street together.
And for the first time in fifteen years, I walked toward something instead of riding away.
Apartment 2B
The hallway smelled like old cooking oil, damp carpet, and bleach.
Leo ran ahead.
"Momma?"
No answer.
He unlocked the apartment door with a key that hung from a string around his neck.
That bothered me more than I could explain.
A seven-year-old shouldn't carry the key to his family's survival.
The apartment was cold.
Too cold.
The heat wasn't working.
A lamp flickered in the living room.
There were dishes stacked beside the sink. Children's drawings covered the refrigerator. A small pair of shoes sat beside the couch.
Then I saw Sarah.
She was lying on the sofa.
"Sarah?"
I crossed the room.
Her skin was pale.
I checked her breathing.
Weak.
But present.
"Call 911."
Leo froze.
"I don't want them to come."
"They're already coming."
"No."
I turned toward him.
"Leo."
His eyes filled again.
"If they take Momma, they'll take me."
I understood then.
He wasn't simply afraid of the ambulance.
He was afraid of what came after.
I pulled my phone from my pocket.
"Listen to me."
He stared at me.
"Your mother needs a doctor. That's not negotiable."
He nodded slowly.
I called emergency services.
While we waited, I opened the kitchen cabinets.
There was almost nothing inside.
A half-empty box of cereal.
Two cans of soup.
Peanut butter.
I looked at the refrigerator.
There were more drawings than food.
That told me enough.
Sarah stirred.
Her eyes opened.
She saw me.
For a second, confusion crossed her face.
Then fear.
"Riker?"
"Yeah."
"What are you doing here?"
"Your son found me."
She looked at Leo.
He moved beside her.
"I didn't mean to..."
Sarah tried to sit up.
I helped her.
"Don't move."
Her breathing was shallow.
"Please."
"What?"
"Don't let them take him."
Her eyes locked onto mine.
"I'll do whatever I can."
"You don't understand."
"I understand enough."
"No."
She grabbed my wrist.
Her hand was unbelievably cold.
"They've been waiting for this."
"Who?"
"The county."
She coughed.
"The landlord too."
"What happened?"
Her eyes closed.
"I got behind."
"How far?"
"Two months."
"How much?"
She whispered the number.
Eight hundred and sixty dollars.
I stared at her.
Eight hundred and sixty dollars.
A number small enough that a wealthy person wouldn't remember spending it.
A number large enough to destroy someone who had nothing.
Sirens approached.
Sarah squeezed my wrist.
"Please."
"I'll stay."
The paramedics entered.
Then came the social worker.
A woman in a navy coat named Denise Parker.
She spoke gently, professionally.
But Leo hid behind me.
"Mr. Hale?"
"Riker."
"Are you family?"
"No."
"Then I need you to step aside."
Leo's hand tightened around my vest.
"No."
Denise looked at him.
"Leo, we're here to help."
"You'll take me."
She didn't answer quickly enough.
That was all the answer he needed.
He began crying.
I looked at Denise.
"Where would he go?"
"Temporary placement."
"Tonight?"
"That's standard procedure."
I looked at Sarah being lifted onto the stretcher.
Then at Leo.
"No."
Denise frowned.
"I'm sorry?"
"He's not going anywhere tonight."
"Mr. Hale, that's not your decision."
"Then tell me whose decision it is."
She gave me a tired look.
"The court's."
"Then I'll see the court."
She blinked.
"You aren't related."
"No."
I looked at Leo.
"But somebody should be."
The Promise
I had forgotten how uncomfortable hospitals were.
Too much white.
Too much fluorescent light.
Too many people walking quickly while pretending nothing was wrong.
Sarah was taken into a treatment room.
Leo and I sat in a waiting area.
He sat three chairs away from me.
Eventually, he fell asleep.
His head leaned against the wall.
I stared at him.
A kid with no backpack.
No father.
No television.
No toys except a bicycle that looked older than he was.
I remembered being seven.
I remembered my own father standing in the kitchen with his hands on the counter.
I remembered the day he left.
I remembered my mother telling me he needed time.
He never came back.
Years later, when I was in the military, I learned he had died alone in another state.
I hadn't cried.
Not then.
Not at the funeral.
Not even when my mother died.
Grief had become something I carried like a spare tool.