Page 6 of Run Omega Run
And when I finally stopped, doubled over and gasping in the middle of the street right outside the orphanage, I took a moment to look at my home... our home. The ramshackle building, the broken pavement. The earthquake had hit us hard, but we made it work; we always would... I always would.
The sweat was still cooling on my skin when I spotted her walking up the cracked pathway to our front door. Even from a distance, Becky's lean silhouette was unmistakable, her glasses catching the first weak rays of sunlight as she navigated around the worst of the broken stones. She moved with the careful grace of someone who'd learned to read the orphanage's treacherous terrain, stepping over the cracks that could twist an ankle andavoiding the loose bricks that had been threatening to tumble from the garden wall for months.
What made my heart skip wasn't just seeing her though. It was the four bulging canvas bags she carried, two in each hand, their bulk making her lean slightly to one side as she walked. The bags looked heavy enough to contain actual food, real food, not the watery soup and day-old bread we'd been stretching to feed us all.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand and hurried toward her, "Becky." Her name came out breathless, part exhaustion from my dawn sprint through the broken streets, and partly in relief at seeing her familiar face. "You're here early."
She smiled, the expression transforming her whole face from merely pretty to genuinely warm. Even at this hour, before the day had properly begun, she looked put-together in a way that spoke of a life with fewer sharp edges than mine. Her dark hair was pulled back in a neat bun, her clothes clean and pressed, her shoes whole and unpatched. But there was nothing condescending in her manner, no trace of the pity I'd grown to recognize and hate in the faces of other volunteers who came and went.
"I wanted to catch you before the children woke up," she said, setting down two of the bags to flex her fingers. Her scent wrapped around me, vanilla cupcakes, sweet and comforting, drifting along the morning breeze. "My pack wanted to make a donation."
My eyes dropped to the bags again, and I had to swallow hard against the sudden tightness in my throat. "Becky, you don't have to—"
"Yes, we do." Her voice was gentle but firm, the tone of someone who'd made up her mind and wouldn't be argued out of it. "The guys are all away on construction contracts thisweek, clearing rubble from the east side where the quake hit hardest. They're making good money, and they wanted it to go somewhere that mattered."
She picked up the bags again, hefting them with the ease of someone accustomed to carrying her share of burdens. "Besides, I told them about the children. They said to buy whatever you need most."
The words hit me like a physical blow, knocking something loose inside my chest that I'd been holding rigid for weeks. When was the last time someone had simply offered help without expecting something in return? When had anyone looked at our family and seen something worth protecting instead of something to be exploited?
I blinked hard, determined not to cry in front of her, but my voice still came out rough around the edges. "Thank you... I, well, just, thank you."
"Don't." She shifted the bags again, and I noticed the way her knuckles had gone white from gripping the handles. "Let's get these inside before I drop something breakable."
“Here, let me help,” I said, taking one of the bags.
I fumbled with the front door. The key sticking in the lock the way it always did, requiring just the right combination of jiggling and cursing to make it turn. But today, even that minor frustration couldn't dampen the lightness spreading through my chest.
As we stepped into the dim entryway, I caught another whiff of Becky's vanilla scent, mixed now with the familiar smell of our building—old stone, damp wood, and the lingering remains of last night's thin soup. The contrast should have been embarrassing; our poverty laid bare against her obvious comfort, but instead it felt like coming home to find someone waiting who actually wanted to be there.
"Kent will be by later too," she said, following me toward the kitchen. "Once he finishes up the Jameson job. He noticed that loose board on your front steps last week, and the way the rain gutter's pulling away from the roof. He wants to fix them before they get worse."
My mind began calculating what that meant. Real groceries for actual meals. Our home getting fixed after the earthquake. These were luxuries we could never afford. The thugs had demanded money or assets, and while I still didn't have the cash, maybe I could buy time. Maybe stretch what we had until I figured out something better.
Two months, I realized with a jolt that made me stumble slightly. If we were careful, if we planned every meal and rationed everything down to the last crumb, the money I'd save on groceries could pay the protection fee for two full months. Two months to figure out a better solution, two months to keep Susie and the others safe from men in expensive suits who looked at children like they were commodities to be harvested.
"You're thinking very loudly," Becky observed, humor threading through her voice. "I can practically hear the gears turning."
I glanced at her, embarrassed to be so transparent, but her expression held nothing but understanding. She'd been coming here for months, long enough to read the careful calculations that went into every decision, the way I weighed each expense against the survival of the children who depended on me to choose correctly.
"It's just... this helps more than you know," I said finally.
She stopped walking and turned to face me fully, her eyes serious behind her glasses. "You don't have to explain anything to me, Heather. I see what you're doing here. What you've built, what you're protecting. It matters."
The simple words, spoken without drama or fanfare, nearly undid me completely. Because it did matter, this broken-down sanctuary we'd cobbled together from determination, second-hand furniture, and love that stretched to cover every crack in the walls. It mattered that Loubie Lou felt safe enough to sleep through the night clutching her one-eared rabbit. It mattered that Denson could arrange his collection of stones in perfect rows without fear. It mattered that when the children woke up, they'd find breakfast waiting, clean clothes, and someone who would listen to their fears and dreams with equal attention.
"The children love you," I said, because it was true and because I needed her to understand how much her presence here meant. "They light up when they see you coming."
Something flickered across Becky's face then, a shadow of pain quickly hidden but not quite fast enough. Her hand moved unconsciously to her stomach, a gesture so brief I almost missed it.
"I love them too," she said quietly. "They make everything feel... possible again."
I wanted to ask what she meant, what had made possibility feel distant in the first place, but the bags in her hands were clearly getting heavy, and somewhere upstairs I could hear the first stirrings of children beginning to wake. Loubie Lou's voice drifted down the stairs, a sleepy conversation with Bunny about whether it was morning yet.
"Come on," I said, leading the way toward the kitchen. "Let's see what you've brought us."
As we walked down the narrow hallway, past the crack that ran up the wall and the loose floorboard that creaked under every footstep, I warmed inside. The magnitude of keeping everyone safe, of finding money that didn't exist, of watching my mother fade away one labored breath at a time, it all felt slightly less crushing with Becky beside me.
Perhaps there was a chance after all. The corners of my mouth lifted, the burden dissolving from my chest that had been there since dawn yesterday.
