That is two months’ pay. $1,200. Keisha felt the ground slipping from under her feet. That was almost half of the savings for Maya’s surgery. That meant months of scrimping on everything, denying themselves the bare necessities, and picking up extra shifts.
«Dr. Thorne,» her voice trembled. «I can’t. My niece is sick. She needs surgery. I’m saving money.»
«Those are your personal problems,» Thorne cut her off. «You damaged expensive clinic property. Be grateful I’m not handing the case over to the police and demanding full reimbursement.»
«But I’m not guilty. Look at the security cameras,» Keisha grabbed onto this thought like a lifeline. «There are cameras in the office.»
Thorne frowned. Indeed, cameras were installed in many offices of the clinic. Keisha saw his gaze slide to the corner near the ceiling where video recorders were usually mounted.
«The camera in this office was taken down two weeks ago for maintenance,» Brenda interjected. «Did you not know?»
It was a blow below the belt. Keisha didn’t know. She didn’t keep track of where and when cameras were removed; that wasn’t part of her duties.
«Very convenient,» she muttered.
«What did you say?» Thorne narrowed his eyes.
«Nothing.» Keisha lowered her head. Her strength was leaving her. Against her were the chief physician and the head nurse. What could she oppose to their words? Nothing.
«Good,» Thorne nodded. «Tomorrow, go to accounting. They will draw up all the documents for the deduction. And now, clean this up.»
He waved his hand at the shards. «This mess, and you are dismissed for the day.»
He headed for the exit. Brenda followed him, but at the door, she turned around. Their eyes met, and Keisha clearly read cold satisfaction in the nurse’s eyes. The door closed.
Keisha was left alone among the wreckage of broken technology and her hopes. She squatted down and began to pick up the shards of protective glass. Her hands were shaking, and tears were dripping onto the white tile, but she stubbornly wiped them away with her palm and continued to work.
There was a large shard, sharp as a razor, and tiny splinters scattered all over the floor along with pieces of plastic casing. The door opened again. Keisha didn’t turn around, thinking it was the cleaner from the neighboring floor.
«No conscience at all,» came Brenda’s familiar voice.
Keisha raised her head. The nurse stood in the doorway. In her hands was a stack of documents.
«Forgot the papers,» Brenda explained, walking to the desk. «And by the way, I advise you to clean more carefully. Those shards are sharp.»
She walked straight toward Keisha. Keisha was reaching out to pick up a large, jagged piece of glass when Brenda stepped forward. She didn’t step around. She brought her foot down heavily, right onto Keisha’s hand.
Keisha screamed from sudden, sharp pain. The heel pressed her hand against the floor, forcing the skin against the sharp glass shard she was holding.
«Oh, excuse me,» Brenda tossed out indifferently, removing her foot. «Didn’t notice.»
Keisha clutched her wounded hand. Blood welled up from the cut, dark and alarming. The pain was burning. She pressed her palm to her chest, feeling the blood staining her white scrubs.
«I need to treat the wound,» she muttered, getting to her feet. «There is peroxide and bandages in the procedure room.»
Brenda picked up her papers from the table. «Although Dr. Thorne said you were free, that means your shift is over. Treat it at home.»
«But my hand…»
«It’s nothing,» Brenda waved her off. «A scratch. You’re not dying. And I need to lock the office.» She looked at Keisha expectantly.
Keisha had no choice but to pick up the bucket and mop with her good hand and leave. Blood continued to ooze from the wound, leaving red drops on the white-tiled floor of the corridor.
In the utility closet where the cleaners left their equipment and changed clothes, Keisha somehow wrapped her hand in toilet paper. It was all she had available. She changed into her old jacket and jeans, stuffing the bloody scrubs into her bag to wash at home.
It was cold and dark outside. It was an early November evening, and wet snow was falling in large flakes. Keisha exited through the service entrance that led to the staff parking lot. Old cars belonging to orderlies and nurses were parked here, a stark comparison to the luxurious parking lot for clinic visitors on the other side of the building.
Her phone had died during the day, so she couldn’t call a ride. It was a fifteen-minute walk to the bus stop. Her hand hurt more and more, and wet snow was getting under her collar. She wanted to just sit right there on the curb and cry her eyes out.
«Miss, are you okay?»
Keisha turned around. A dark blue Toyota Camry, not new, about seven or eight years old with a slightly scuffed bumper, had stopped next to her. Behind the wheel sat a man of about forty, in a simple dark jacket and a knit cap. He had an ordinary face, kind eyes, and light stubble.
«Everything is fine,» Keisha answered mechanically, although tears were already rolling down her cheeks.
«Are you from the clinic?» The man nodded at the Summit Health Building. «Where do you need to go? Need a lift?»
Keisha was about to refuse, but then she remembered her colleague Latoya had promised to call her a taxi for the evening because she knew Keisha’s phone was acting up. This must be it.
«Are you from Latoya?» she asked.
«Uh…» He was slightly surprised, but then nodded. «Yes, get in, you’ll freeze.»
Keisha opened the back door and settled into the seat. It was warm in the car. It smelled of coffee and the faint scent of pine from the air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror.
«What’s the address?» The man turned to her.
«12 Factory Street.»
Keisha wiped her tears with the sleeve of her jacket. The car moved off, smoothly exiting the parking lot. The driver drove carefully, not speeding. The lights of the night city, wet sidewalks, and rare pedestrians under umbrellas flashed outside the window.
«Tough day?» the driver asked quietly, looking at the road.
Something about his calm, sympathetic tone nudged Keisha. She hadn’t planned to tell a stranger taxi driver anything, but the words poured out on their own, as if a dam had burst.
«Today, I was accused of something I didn’t do. An expensive machine broke in the clinic, costs over $20,000. I was just washing the floor nearby. But the head nurse said it was my fault.»
She paused to take a breath. «Even though she pushed it herself, I saw it. And the chief doctor believed her, and now they are going to deduct $1,200 from my salary.»
Her voice broke. She fell silent, biting her lip so as not to burst into tears.
«1,200,» the driver repeated. «That’s a lot.»
«That’s half of what I’ve saved for my niece’s surgery.» Keisha looked out the window at the blurred lights. «My niece, Maya, she’s ten. She has problems with her leg after a birth injury. She needs surgery. The deductible is $5,000.»
«I’ve been saving for almost a year, and now…» She didn’t finish. The man was silent, only nodding to show he was listening.
And Keisha continued. She told him about Maya, about her sister Tasha who died two years ago and left the girl in her care. She spoke about how Maya endures the pain but never complains, and how scary it is to watch a child unable to run normally with peers.
She talked about the injustice of today. About Brenda, who had disliked her from her first day of work. The driver listened silently, only occasionally nodding. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t give advice, and didn’t speak platitudes like «everything will be fine.» He just listened.
And that was exactly what Keisha needed right now. For someone to just listen. The car stopped at a leaning apartment building on Factory Street. Keisha fell silent, suddenly realizing how much she had said to a stranger.
«I’m sorry,» she mumbled, taking out her wallet. «I burdened you with my problems. How much do I owe you?»
«Nothing.» The driver shook his head. «The ride is paid for, but get well.» He nodded at her bandaged hand. «And hang in there.»
Keisha got out of the car. The Toyota drove away, dissolving into the evening traffic. She watched it go, then trudged to the entrance.
Her phone rang in her pocket; apparently, it had charged a little from the power bank she carried with her. It was Latoya calling.
«Keisha, where are you? I called you a taxi, but the driver says you’re not at the clinic. Did you already leave?»
Keisha stopped in the middle of the courtyard. That meant the man in the Toyota wasn’t a taxi driver, just a stranger who decided to give her a lift. She had dumped her whole life on him.
The next morning, Keisha woke up to Maya carefully touching her bandaged hand.
«Auntie Keisha, does it hurt?» The girl looked at her with wide brown eyes, just like Tasha’s.
«A little bit, sunshine.» Keisha sat up in bed, grimacing. Her hand really did hurt after the night. The bandage was soaked with dried fluid, and the wound was inflamed.
«It’s nothing serious, just got scratched at work.»
Maya frowned, distrustful in an adult way. «You were crying yesterday. I heard you.»
Keisha hugged her niece with her good arm, pressing the thin body close. She smelled the baby shampoo in her hair. For the sake of this child, she was ready to endure any injustice, any pain.
«Just very tired. It happens with adults. Let’s go have breakfast.»
They had breakfast on the leftovers of yesterday’s grits and sausage. Maya ate slowly, limping as she hobbled to the table. Her leg was clearly hurting more than usual. Keisha looked at her and felt everything tighten inside; she needed to solve the money issue urgently.
After breakfast, she took Maya to Miss Hattie on the first floor. The neighbor watched the girl while Keisha was at work, charging very little for it. Then she wandered to the bus stop. She didn’t want to go to the clinic, but she had to deal with this fine and try to change the situation somehow.
The bus was late. Keisha stood at the bus stop, wrapping herself in her thin jacket, when a familiar dark blue Toyota slowed down at the curb.
«Good morning.» It was the driver from yesterday. The same man in the simple jacket, smiling politely at her. «Going to work?»
Keisha was confused. «You? You’re not a taxi driver.»
«And I didn’t say I was a taxi driver.» He shrugged. «I just saw yesterday that you were upset. Decided to give you a lift. My name is Julian. Get in. I’m going your way anyway.»
Common sense suggested refusing. One shouldn’t get into cars with strangers. But something about this man inspired trust—kind eyes, a calm voice, the absence of any pushiness. Yesterday, he had listened to her whole story and hadn’t said a single superfluous word.
«Okay.» Keisha opened the door. «Thank you.»
They drove in silence for the first five minutes. Julian didn’t ask questions or try to start a conversation; he just drove the car, occasionally glancing in the rearview mirror. Quiet music played on the radio.
«Did you treat your hand?» he finally asked.
«Yes, at home.» Keisha looked at her bandaged palm. «Washed it with peroxide, put some ointment on it.»
«You need to see a doctor. Maybe there are shards left?»
«No time.» She chuckled humorlessly. «And no extra money.»
Julian nodded but said nothing. He stopped the car at the service entrance of the clinic.
«Thank you.» Keisha reached for the door handle, but he stopped her.
«Listen.» Julian turned to her. «If you need anything, here is my card.»
He handed her a small white card. Keisha took it mechanically. Julian Hayes was written on it along with a phone number, but no job title or company name.
«Why are you doing this?» she asked. «You don’t know me at all.»
«Because,» Julian smiled, «sometimes people just need help for no reason.»
Keisha got out of the car, clutching the card in her fist. The Toyota drove away, and she stood for a long time watching it go.
At the clinic, the day started badly. In accounting, they shoved papers at her to sign, forcing her to consent to deduct $1,200 from her salary in equal parts over two months. 600 this month, 600 next.