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Chapter 5

Martha Marks

Martha got in early every day.

Not because anyone asked her to.
Not because it was in her job description.
She just did.

The building felt different before the doors opened. Quieter. Like it hadn’t decided yet what kind of day it was going to be.

She unlocked the front door, flipped the lights on one row at a time, then went straight to the small break area without taking her coat off.

Coffee first.

Always coffee first.

She filled the machine, measured the grounds without looking, and hit the switch. The smell started spreading through the room before the water even finished heating.

Next came the bagels.

Fresh every morning.
Plain, everything, cinnamon raisin, whatever the bakery had left from the first batch.

She set them on a plastic tray on the table near the entrance, lined them up so the labels faced forward, then put the cream cheese tubs in a neat row beside them.

The people in the center complained about that.

Said she never brought anything for them.

Said she was playing favorites.

Martha never answered.

The bagels weren’t for the clients.

They were for the staff.

And even then, mostly for the ones who got there early enough to need something before the day started.

She wiped the table, even though it was already clean, then stepped back and looked at the entrance.

Chairs straight.
Sign-in sheet ready.
Pens in the cup, all facing the same way.

Good.

She turned toward the hallway just as the side door opened.

Gary came in pushing the mop bucket, the wheels squeaking the same way they always did, one higher than the others so it made a soft thump every turn.

“Morning, Gary.”

He stopped, looked up like he hadn’t expected anyone to be there yet, then smiled wide.

“Morning, Martha.”

He parked the bucket against the wall and started mopping the tile near the front desk, slow and careful, the way he always did, like every square mattered.

Gary never missed a spot.

Didn’t matter how long it took.

He worked like the floor was something that needed to be protected, not cleaned.

Most people in town knew what happened to him.

His family’s car went off the bridge when he was a kid.
Winter. Ice on the road.
Straight through the guardrail and into the river.

His parents didn’t make it.

Gary did.

So did his older sister.

Meadow.

Nobody talked about the accident around him, but everyone knew it was why things were the way they were.

Gary had trouble with numbers, with forms, with anything that changed too fast.

But he could clean a building better than anyone Martha had ever seen.

He mopped the same pattern every morning, starting at the front and working toward the back, never skipping, never rushing.

Routine kept him steady.

Martha understood that.

She went behind the desk, unlocked the drawer, and took out the sign-in clipboard.

Her desk was already in order, but she straightened the stack of forms anyway, tapping the edges against the counter until the corners lined up perfectly.

Then she opened the bottom drawer.

The toy was exactly where she left it.

Small. Plastic. Worn smooth around the edges from years of being handled.

She picked it up and turned it over once in her hand before pressing the button.

The speaker crackled.

“I’m the baby, gotta love me.”

She let the sound play all the way through before she set the toy on the desk for a second, just looking at it.

Dale gave it to her when they were kids.

Said it reminded him of her.

She never knew if he meant it as a joke or not.

He used to squeeze it over and over just to get on her nerves, holding it up in her face, making the voice talk back to her like the thing had something important to say.

You’re the baby, he’d say.
Don’t matter how old you get, you’re still the baby.

She pressed the button again, softer this time, and the sound made her smile before she could stop it.

For a second she could hear him laughing in the kitchen, their mother telling him to knock it off before he broke the thing.

She set the toy back in the drawer and closed it carefully.

Gary’s mop bucket rolled past the desk, the wheel thumping once against the tile.

“All good up here?” he asked.

“All good.”

He nodded and kept going.

The front door opened a few minutes later, the bell giving its usual dull buzz.

First client of the day.

Middle-aged man, eyes red, shirt wrinkled like he slept in it, holding the intake form like it was written in another language.

He stood at the counter a second before speaking.

“Where do I put this?”

“Right here,” Martha said, tapping the desk.

He handed it over, fingers shaking just enough to notice.

She looked it over quick, eyes moving down the page.

“You left a couple lines blank.”

He shrugged.

“Didn’t know what to put.”

“You put what’s true.”

He let out a short breath.

“They ask how much you drink,” he said quietly.
“You tell ’em what you drink when things are good, or what you drink when things ain’t?”

Martha held his eyes for a second.

“You tell ’em what you drank last night.”

He stared at the paper again.

“They gonna think I’m lying anyway.”

“They usually do.”

He gave a tired half smile at that, then nodded once and stepped away when the counselor called his name from the hallway.

Martha set the form on the stack and squared the edges with both hands.

Same questions.

Same boxes.

Same answers nobody ever wanted to write down.

She could see Dale at the kitchen table again, pen tapping against the paper, faster and faster until their mother told him to stop before he tore the form in half.

Just answer the question, she’d said.

He laughed, sharp and tired.

You want the number that sounds normal, or the number that’s real?

Their mother didn’t turn around.

You tell them what they ask. Don’t make it harder than it has to be.

Dale pushed the chair back hard.

Ain’t the drinking, he said.
That’s just what I do so my head shuts up.

Martha blinked and the desk was back in front of her.

Coffee hissed in the machine behind her.

Somebody coughed in the waiting room.

The clock ticked louder than it should have.

The last time she saw Dale he was standing on the back steps, talking too fast, saying he just needed a little help this time.

She told herself he always said that.

Two days later the phone rang before sunrise.

They said the building went up fast.
Old wiring at first.
Then later it wasn’t.

Owner set the fire.

Didn’t know anyone was inside.

Dale had been sleeping in one of the back rooms.

Martha stared at the sign-in sheet until the letters stopped looking like words.

She opened the drawer, took the toy out, and pressed the button.

“I’m the baby, gotta love me.”

She turned it over once, then set it back and closed the drawer.

Gary’s mop bucket rolled past again.

Same sound.

Same morning.

Same day.

Lunch came the same time every day.

At eleven-thirty Martha locked the drawer, straightened the forms, and wiped a spot on the counter that didn’t need wiping.

The side door opened and Meadow stepped in carrying a brown paper sack and a plastic grocery bag.

She nodded toward Martha.

“Afternoon.”

“Morning.”

Gary hurried over, eyes already on the bag.

“What’d you bring?”

Meadow started taking things out one at a time.

“Turkey.”
“Apple.”
“Chips.”
“And—”

She held up a plastic container.

Gary leaned closer.

“Cucumber.”

His face lit up.

“Cucumber my favorite!”

He laughed loud, clapping his hands once before sitting down hard in the chair.

Meadow smiled.

“You say that every time.”

“’Cause it’s true every time.”

Martha opened her own bag.

Tuna salad.

Same as yesterday.

Same as most days.

She sat across from them, unfolding the napkin slow, smoothing the creases with her thumb.

Gary crunched the cucumber loud enough for everyone to hear.

Meadow took a bite of her sandwich.

“You eating okay today?” she asked.

Martha nodded.

“Yeah.”

Meadow watched her a second, then let it go.

They ate in silence.

Outside, a car pulled into the lot.

Gary reached for another cucumber slice, smiling to himself.

Meadow wiped her hands on a napkin.

Martha took another bite of the tuna and looked toward the front door.

Someone would be walking in any minute.

They always did.