It’s been a month since the fire. Not much has changed, save for my hopes for saving the school. They’ve dropped. As has immediate interest in Devyn, the kids, and myself.

 

Despite the generous donations we’ve received from people, it doesn’t seem like I’ll be able to be in charge of a school again. I’ve had pro bono lawyers call me, trying to help me only to end our conversations with parting words along the lines of, “and I hope you have a backup plan” or “if you need a job in the meantime, we’re looking for a secretary”.

 

Seems like the world is against me on this.

 

Everything and everyone, except Devyn.

 

“So what’s the next step of the plan”, she asks with a mouthful of a Cubano sandwich. “All we’ve done is eat and I have to go soon. You have to fill me in, Tessa. What’s going on under that red bedhead of yours?”

 

The hoarseness of her voice hasn’t gone down much. It seems like the damage done to her throat by the smoke inhalation is more permanent than we were both hoping. Hearing her clear her throat after every other sentence hurts. It’s painful to see my best friend suffer because I chose to leave her behind in a smoke-filled room.

 

“Devyn, you don’t… you don’t resent me, do you?”

 

All of the character fades from her as she puts down her sandwich and clears her throat to answer me. “That does not sound like the next step of the plan”, she groans.

 

I beg her, “please, Devyn. No jokes for just a second. I have to know.”

 

She closes her eyes and shrugs. “I wouldn’t have known that you saved Jamie instead of me, if you hadn’t spent so much time talking to the nurses watching over me, you know that right?” She sighs. “Tessa, I don’t resent you. I don’t hate you. Not even a little. As a matter of fact, I would hate you forever if you had saved me instead of an unconscious, developmentally disabled child. That’d have been heartless. You did the right thing and I will never resent you for that”, she assures me.

 

Devyn scoots her chair to be next to mine. “Don’t forget what you told me when I got out of the hospital. Uh, something like, ‘we could have done a whole lot of other things we didn’t do, but we didn’t. And we just have to live with it’, right?”

 

I nod my head in agreement and thank her for her honesty.

 

“So… Come on. What’s the next step?”

 

The next step is giving up. It’s the last thing I want to do but with each passing day, it seems like the only viable option. Even if the money we raise through GoFundMe is enough to rebuild the school, that doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll be given the certifications or permits to run the school after the media frenzy this has become. “Terrible Tessa’s Terrifying Tragedy”, I remember a headline calling it with an unflattering candid picture of me bawling over the loss of years of work.

 

“I’m not sure yet. I think we should keep the GoFundMe going for a little bit longer and see what are options are then”, I lie.

 

Finishing her sandwich, Devyn hastily wipes her mouth and stands up from her chair. “It’s not a great plan. But it’s better than nothing. I’ll catch ya later. Call me if you-- well, hm. Send me a message on Facebook, I’ve been using my cousin’s iPad to stay informed with the outside world.”

 

I give her an unenthusiastic thumbs up and watch her leave. Once she’s fully out of sight, I allow myself to cave into my emotions and have a good, hard cry. I let the tears flow from the depths of my soul and embarrassingly weep in full view of the other customers at this cafe. I can confidently say that I’ve done all that I can and it just hasn’t worked out. Optimist or not, sooner or later Devyn is going to have to face reality and realize that we’re screwed. I’ve tried to stay positive for both of our sakes, but I don’t see a single endgame where things go back to normal.

 

My phone rings.

 

I quickly wipe the tears from my face and blow my nose before answering the call. It’s not a number I’ve gotten calls from before. It’s a Nevada number.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Good afternoon, is this Tessa Chambers?” It’s an old man. An old man from Nevada who knows my name. A journalist, maybe?

 

“Yes, this is she”, I say strongly.

 

“Wonderful”, he chortles. “Ms. Chambers, my name is Clyde. It’s a true pleasure to meet you. Now it is to my understanding that you’ve fallen on some hard times, is that right?”

 

This is bizarre. I look around the cafe, scanning the faces of every patron to make sure I’m not being prank called from just a few feet away. No suspects as of yet.

 

“That’s right… Clyde.”

 

“Of course it’s right! You’re in quite an interesting position, Ms. Chambers. You see, you are in need of help, and I am in the business of helping women such as yourself out of situations in which they are in need of help. Are you interested?”

 

“In what exactly”, I ask, suspicious of this strange old man’s intentions. I can’t tell if he’s trying to sell me something or not.

 

He laughs heartily. “Now, now, Ms. Chambers. All necessary information will be disclosed to you in due time. But first, I need a yes or a no.”

 

“Yes or no to what? Hold on, how’d you get my phone number? And how do you know who I am”, I ask in quick succession, growing more and more anxious and losing my patience.

 

The old man’s cheerful, almost senile demeanor was dropped a cold, robotic tone. “Ms. Chambers, please calm yourself. Your phone number was posted publicly on the GoFundMe page you set up. As for knowing who you are, you’re quite the celebrity, wouldn’t you say?”

 

Damn it.

 

“So what is it you want”, I ask firmly, hoping to end this conversation soon.

 

“No, no, no. You misunderstand. It’s not about what I want. Rather it’s about what you need. Money. Lots of it from the looks of things. Now, I do need to know if you’ll be able to fly out to Reno this fast approaching weekend. You won’t have to pay for a thing. Just give me some of your time and you can decide whether or not you’ll want to move forward from that point.”

 

Reno. Alright, I can put two and two together. Prostitution is legal in Reno and this guy thinks he can get me to just drop everything so I can get in bed with rich old guys for disappointing sex and some money.

 

“I’m sure you’re thinking the worst of this offer, but I do hope you’ll think it over. If you’re hesitant on it now, I advise you sleep on it. A beautiful woman such as yourself can make haul in a lot of money in no time at all working with us.”

 

In order to get some concrete answers on whether or not I’d be getting involved in prostitution, I ask the old man outright. “This is prostitution, isn’t it?”

 

He hangs up. I look up and see that every pair of eyes in the cafe is looking back at me, everyone curious as to what was being said to me on the other end. And with that, I pay for my food and exit the cafe.

 

Then I receive a text. No, a link to some website.

 

The Gentlemen’s Club of Reno.

 

A noise comes out of me that could be considered a mix between audible disgust and incredulous laughter. It’s exactly what I thought it’d be. A snobby whorehouse for decrepit rich guys buy sex. Although, it says here that some men don’t go looking for sex, but someone to treat or spend time with, platonically.

 

That doesn’t sound nearly as repulsive.

 

As Clyde said, I am in a bit of a pickle financially. If I have to spend some time making old rich men feel wanted to make some money, that wouldn’t necessarily be the end of the world. Quite the opposite. I’d be that much closer to reaching my goal. And worse comes to worst, I’ll be able to use that money to fund whatever venture I choose to pursue that doesn’t involve a daycare.

 

There would be more benefits to seeing what Clyde has to offer in terms of money. The thought of him offering anything else makes me sick.

 

I open my texting app and send Clyde my response.

 

When’s the flight?