Chapter 4 FOUR HOURS OF SLEEP

I woke up on the kitchen floor with my cheek stuck to my arm and a crick in my neck. The clock on the stove said 6:12. I had slept a solid four hours.

Then it all came flashing back. Elias. The card. Ninety days. And his hand on my back. I did not want to remember that part.

The black card was still in my tight fist. I must have held it all night. The corners had left little dents in my palm.

"Mommy?"

Mimi was sitting up in her bed with her curls squashed flat on one side. She had Biscuit, her stuffed lion, tucked under her chin. One of his ears was missing, and she loved him more for it.

"You slept on the floor," she said. "Like a dog."

"Like a very tired one too."

She giggled, and just like that, the weight in my chest got a little lighter. I crawled over to her bed on my knees, and she laughed harder.

"Woof, woof," I barked.

"Mommy, stop. Biscuit is scared."

"Biscuit is a lion. He is not scared of dogs."

"He is scared of you."

I kissed the top of her head. She smelled like sleep and baby shampoo. Under my lips, I felt her small, quick pulse.

"Okay, Miss Cole," I said. "Medicine time."

I took the plastic pill box from the shelf and tipped out the morning pills. One white, one yellow, one tiny pink one that she hated. I counted them twice. Then I counted what was left in the bottles and did the math in my head. Eleven days. That was all we had left. The pharmacy wanted money before it gave me more.

I closed the box and smiled like nothing was wrong.

"Open wide," I said.

"The pink one tastes like feet."

"How do you know what feet taste like?"

"Mrs. Okafor's grandson told me."

"He is not a reliable source."

She swallowed the pills with a long drink of water, made a face, then stuck out her tongue to show me it was empty.

Then she held Biscuit up. "He needs medicine too." She fed him an invisible pill, waited, and nodded. "He says thank you."

Then she put her ear against my chest, the way she did every morning.

"Your heart is loud, Mommy."

"So is yours, baby."

"Mine is louder."

"Then we will see who wins."

She grinned and listened a little longer. I held very still. I did not tell her I was the one listening.

I made breakfast, which meant toast with the last of the butter and half a banana, cut into coins. Mimi lined the coins on the toast like buttons. She ate the toast first and saved the banana for last, because she said the best thing should always come at the end.

"I heard a man's voice last night," she said, with her mouth full.

My hand stopped on the cup.

"A man?"

"He was clearly talking to you outside. He sounded sad." She chewed. "Was he sad?"

I thought about Elias crouched on the cold step with his hand on my back. His voice cracking on her name.

"A little," I said. "He is an old friend."

It was not a lie. It was not the whole truth either.

"Is he coming back?"

"I don't know."

"I hope so," she said, very seriously. "Sad people need soup."

I laughed, and it surprised me. It was my first real laugh in weeks.

The card was on the table next to the sugar jar. Black, with white letters. ELIAS KANE. IRON CROWN GYM.

While Mimi drew a picture on the back of an old electric bill, I picked it up. I walked to the trash can and held it over the lid. I told myself I would not be a charity case. I told myself I had been fine for seven years without him. Fine was a strong word, even for me.

My fingers would not let go.

Eleven days of pills. Forty-five thousand dollars. My ex with a gold watch who wanted my daughter.

Pride was a nice thing to have. It just didn't fit into the ninety day schedule.

I turned around and slid the card into my apron pocket, behind the order pad. Then I washed my hands like I had touched something dirty.

"Mommy, look."

Mimi held up her drawing. It showed three people holding hands under a huge yellow sun. One was tall with long scribbles on his arms. One had a ponytail and boxing gloves. And one was small, with curly hair and a lion under her arm.

"Who is that?" I pointed to the tall one, though I already knew.

"The sad man. I gave him sun, so he won't be sad anymore."

"And that one?"

"That's you. You have your fighting hands."

I could not speak for a second.

"It is very good," I said, and my voice came out wrong. "Let's put it on the fridge."

She stuck it up with a magnet shaped like a banana. We both stood back and looked at it like it was in a museum.

At seven thirty, the door opened without a knock. Mrs. Okafor stood there with her big gold earrings, holding a covered pot in both hands. The smell of pepper soup hit the room like a hug. Mrs. Okafor was one of my closest friends, even if she liked to call herself a nosy neighbor. She had moved to Texas from Nigeria a few years ago with her family, and she had been feeding us ever since. Nobody made pepper soup, jollof rice or fried plantain like she did.

"Auntie Okafor!" Mimi screamed, and ran across the room.

"My little queen. Careful with your heart, now." But she was already smiling, and she bent down to hold Mimi. She kissed Mimi's forehead three times, once for each grandchild who lived far away.

When she straightened up, the smile was gone. She set the pot on the counter and lowered her voice so only I could hear.

"Jada. Who is the man in the black car?"

My skin went cold. "What car?"

"It was parked across the street when I came out. It was there when I went to bed last night too. Nobody got out. Nobody went in." She pressed her lips together. "I do not like it."

I crossed the room to the window and moved the edge of the curtain with one finger.

It was there. Long, black and polished, with dark windows. It sat in the shade of an old tree, its engine silent. I could not see inside.

Mimi tugged at my sleeve. "Mommy, who are you looking at?"

"Nobody, baby. Just the weather."

She did not believe me, but she let it go. Then she climbed onto the chair, pressed her small face to the glass, and waved at the street.

"Hi!" she called, even though nobody could hear her. "Hi, car!"

Across the road, the back window of the black car slid down, just a few inches.

A lens glinted in the dark gap. A tiny light flashed.

It was pointed straight at my daughter.