The Cedarwood sun beat down on the pavement, radiating heat through the thin soles of Crysta's cheap canvas shoes.
It was Monday. She wore a plain black t-shirt and dark jeans she had bought from a thrift store for eight dollars. They were clean, but they hung loosely on her emaciated frame.
She pushed open the glass door of a local coffee shop. The bell chimed.
The manager, a woman with a tight ponytail, smiled at her. "Can I help you?"
"I am looking for a job," Crysta said. "I can serve, clean, whatever you need."
The manager handed her a clipboard. "Fill this out."
Crysta sat at a small table. She filled in her name. She left the address blank. She moved down the page.
Her pen stopped.
HAVE YOU EVER BEEN CONVICTED OF A FELONY?
Her thumb instinctively dropped to her left wrist, rubbing the raw skin. Her heart hammered against her ribs. If she lied, they would find out during the background check. Lying was a violation of her parole.
She checked the box marked YES.
She handed the clipboard back. The manager glanced at the paper. The smile vanished from her face instantly. Her facial muscles went slack.
"We will keep this on file," the manager said, sliding the clipboard under the counter. "Don't call us. We will call you."
Crysta walked out. The bell chimed again, mocking her.
Tuesday. A fast-food restaurant. The teenager behind the counter saw the checked box and laughed nervously before tossing the application in the trash.
Wednesday. A laundromat. The owner shook his head before she even finished filling out the form.
Thursday. A gas station. The manager, a large man with sweat stains on his collar, leaned over the counter. "We don't hire thieves and junkies here. Get out."
Friday.
Crysta sat on the concrete curb outside a small grocery store. Her stomach was a hollow, screaming cavern. She had eaten half a loaf of bread in five days. Her blood sugar was so low her vision blurred at the edges.
She looked at her hands. They were shaking.
The motel rent for her extended stay was due tomorrow. She had four dollars left. She was going to end up on the street. And if she ended up on the street, her parole officer would send her back to prison.
A wave of nausea hit her. She bent over, resting her forehead on her knees, trying to breathe through the sharp pain in her gut.
A heavy vehicle pulled into the parking space right in front of her. The engine rattled before dying.
Crysta did not look up. She didn't have the energy.
A pair of worn work boots stepped onto the pavement.
"Child?"
Crysta flinched. She knew that voice.
She slowly raised her head. Margo Novak stood there, holding a canvas grocery bag. Margo's eyes widened in shock.
Crysta's chest seized. Shame flooded her veins, making her face burn. This woman had given her twenty-three dollars, and here she was, starving on a curb like a stray dog. She wanted the concrete to open up and swallow her.
"Is that you?" Margo took a step closer. She wiped her hands on the thighs of her jeans. "You look awful. Are you sick?"
Crysta tried to stand up, but her legs gave out. She slumped back onto the curb.
Pride was a luxury she could no longer afford. Her throat tightened, and the words ripped their way out of her chest.
"I cannot find a job," Crysta choked out. Her voice was broken, desperate. "Nobody will hire me. They see the box on the application, and they throw me out."
Margo stared at her. The older woman's face softened. Her eyes grew wet. She was looking at Crysta, but Crysta knew Margo was seeing her son, Ricky. Margo was seeing the exact future that awaited her own child.
Crysta grabbed the edge of Margo's jeans. Her knuckles were white.
"Please," Crysta begged. The word tasted like blood. "I will do anything. I will wash dishes. I will haul trash. I just need a chance to eat. Please."
Silence stretched between them. The sound of cars passing on the street seemed miles away.
Crysta let go of Margo's jeans. She dropped her head. She had pushed too hard. She had ruined it.
"I run a diner," Margo said.
Crysta's head snapped up.
Margo's voice was firm. "It is small. The pay is minimum wage. But I need a waitress."
Margo reached out her hand. The skin was rough, calloused from years of hard work.
Crysta stared at the hand. Her lungs expanded, pulling in a massive breath of air. The crushing weight on her chest lifted just enough for her to survive.
She reached up and grabbed Margo's hand. She nodded violently, tears spilling over her cheeks.
