It’s the fifth of the month.

I still don’t have a damn job.

I know it’s the fifth of the month because the landlord, whose unfortunate name is Charlie Hurt, comes by specially today to inform me of this.

And to remind me that rent was due on the first.

As if I didn’t know.

Charlie Hurt is somewhere between forty-five and sixty-five years old. It’s almost impossible to tell because he has the kind of fat, flaccid body that comes from years of sitting motionless in front of a television screen with a beer in his hand. It’s the end of summer, but his skin is as pale as if we were in Minnesota in February. His sparse, mud-colored hair sticks up from his shiny head in patches. His faded Hawaiian shirt is wrinkled and worn. There’s a suspicious stain on his ill-fitting Bermuda shorts.

He’s standing at the top of the rickety outdoor stairway that leads to my apartment, on the small landing. I’m blocking the doorway, so he won’t come in, because truth be told, he kind of creeps me out. He is not happy about this. As we speak, he keeps casting his eyes inside with a suspicious frown, as though he thinks I’m cooking meth in here or something.

“You know, I only agreed to let you have this month to month lease as a personal favor to your daddy,” he’s saying to me now. His pasty features twist into a smug, self-satisfied look that tells me he thinks that he and “my daddy” are big buddies now. “Usually, I ask for a six-month lease on this place.”

I have to suppress the urge to laugh. I can’t imagine anyone being willing to sign a document saying that they are actually planning to stay in this rat hole for six months. Instead of laughing, though, I take a deep breath and force myself to be as pleasant as I can. “I appreciate that, Mr. Hurt. Truly I do.”

“Call me Charlie,” he smirks at me, like he’s doing me a favor now by letting me call him by his first name. It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes.

“Mr. Hurt,” I say again, ignoring the flash of anger in his eyes that I’m not calling him Charlie. “I promise you, I’ll get the rent for you as soon as I possibly can. I have a few job interviews lined up, and…”

“You mean, you don’t even have a job yet?” he asks, raising his eyebrows skeptically.

Actually, I’m totally lying about the job interviews, but I’m not about to tell him that. “Mr. Hurt,” I try again, “I promise you, I’ll have you the rent within the next week. I’m just trying to make sure the money I do have lasts until then. In the meantime, could you maybe apply part of the security deposit toward this month?” I give him what I hope is a convincing smile. “And I can reimburse you for it just as soon as my first paycheck comes in.” Either the club or my dad gave him the security deposit before I moved in, but I had insisted on coming up with the rent money myself. Now I’m regretting that, even though I don’t want to be more beholden to them than I already am.

The truth is, though, I don’t see any hope at all on the horizon of coming up with any more money. I currently have exactly twenty-four dollars and fifty-eight cents in my purse, and another ninety dollars in the bank. And I have no idea when I’ll manage to get more. Hell, I even accepted an invitation to come over to my dad’s house for dinner tonight because that means one more meal for Noah and me that I won’t have to pay for.

Mr. Hurt — Charlie, ugh — doesn’t seem to even consider my request. I imagine he’s had more than one tenant here who’s fallen hopelessly behind on the rent.

“Now, why would I do a thing like that?” he says, scoffing. “That security deposit is so’s you can’t skip out on me and leave me high and dry.”

“I know, I know,” I say, trying again. “But I promise you, I wouldn’t —”

You know,” he drawls, interrupting me. “If you can’t manage to scrape together the rent, we’re just gonna have to figure out some other way for you to pay me. If you want to stay here,” he adds with a small, creepy grin. His eyes leave my face and travel downward, lingering here and there in a way that makes me want to throw up. It feels almost like he’s touching me with his gross, feminine hands, bits of dirt visible under the fingernails.

I push down a shudder and get angry instead. “How dare you!” I say, my voice rising in indignation. Then I remember that Noah is right inside, playing a game on my laptop. Drawing myself up to my full height, I continue, my voice low and sharp. “Remember who my father is, Mister Hurt. And who my brother is. You suggest anything like that again, and you’ll come to regret it. Do you hear me?”

A flicker of hatred crosses his face, followed by fear. “That rent is due in five days,” he hisses at me, narrowing his eyes. “You don’t pay it to me in full by the tenth, you’re out. You hear me?”

Before I can think of a response, he is gone, the staircase shaking slightly as he lumbers down it.

When he’s finally disappeared inside his house, I take a step out on the landing and close my eyes. “Damn,” I whisper to myself. “Damn, damn.” I hate that I just used my family name like that. I hate even more that it was my only choice. I open my eyes again and stare off at a small clump of trees across the street. I have no power on my own, I realize. I have nothing on my own.

Dejectedly, I sink down on the top step, and try not to cry. My hand goes to my neck, and I begin to finger the ring that’s on the chain around my neck for comfort. It’s my mother’s engagement ring — the only thing I have left of her, except for a couple of faded photographs. My father gave it to me the day after her funeral. I wear it pretty much all the time. It’s comforting, almost like she’s still here with me, in a way. Unfortunately, right now, it’s just making me miss her even more. Oh, Mom, I think desperately. Why is life so hard all the time? Why can’t I just get a little break now and then?

“Mommy?” Noah’s voice calls to me. “What did that man want?”

“Nothing, bug,” I call back. Tears prick my eyes. Thank God Noah’s still little, I think. Thank God he’s still too young to know how poor we are, and how desperate I am.

With a sigh, I heave myself up and go back into the apartment, into the tiny living room that seems impossibly dim and dingy. Noah is happily playing his game, pumping his tiny fist in joy whenever he gets a point. All the light in this place shines from him. My heart swells with love to the point that it’s almost unbearable.

Not trusting my voice for a second, I sit down beside him and hug him to me, burying my face in his brown curls and taking in the still-babyish scent of his skin. He’s growing up so fast, I think to myself. I have to make things better for him. I have to make a better life for him. Before he’s old enough to see everything we don’t have.

As if he senses I’m thinking about him, he looks up at me with his deep brown eyes and flashes me a wide grin that reminds me almost painfully of his father. For a moment, I feel a spike of fear. Anyone who looked at Noah — who really looked at him — would see in an instant the resemblance between them. They’d see the hint of a dimple in his left cheek; the wide, intelligent forehead; the deep brown eyes. What are the odds that I can keep this a secret forever? I think. I should never have come back to Tanner Springs.

As I sit there, holding my boy close, his little tummy starts to growl.

“You hungry, bug?” I ask him, ruffling his hair.

“Yeah,” he admits. His eyes light up as he gives me his most winning grin. “Can we go get ice cream?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say no, but I stop myself. After all, what’s one ice cream? I still have twenty-four dollars and fifty-eight cents. It’s hardly anything, but it’s enough money to bring some joy to a little boy’s heart. If I don’t get anything but a coffee for myself, treating Noah will cost me less than three bucks.

“You know, what?” I say. “Sure. Let’s go get you some ice cream.”

Noah lets out an elated yell and bounces up off the couch like he has springs on his feet. It makes me laugh. Which makes me realize I haven’t laughed in a while. Determined to let go of my problems for an hour and just be Noah’s mom, I grab my purse and lock up the apartment. We descend the staircase to my car, Noah carefully navigating the steep steps, and I push away the thought that I’m needlessly wasting gas. Then I drive us the two miles to the Downtown Diner, which is the only place I can think of that serves ice cream.

I haven’t been to the Downtown in years. Since I was in high school, in fact. But as always seems to be the way with diners like this, the Downtown is timeless, and everything is pretty much the same as I remember it. Noah and I slide into a booth, and soon the waitress appears, holding a plastic cup full of crayons for Noah. I order a cup of black coffee for myself and a bowl of chocolate ice cream for him, and Noah gets to work drawing all over the placemat.

As we wait for our order, I scan the mostly-empty diner, and notice that there are voices coming from the back room. Curious, I look over, and what I see makes my blood go hot and cold at the same time.

It’s a group of Lords, in their leather cuts.

And in the middle of them is Cas Watkins.