The air inside was colder than outside. That was the first thing I noticed. The second was the silence—no TV glow, no radio, just a lamp humming in the corner and the uneven rhythm of her breathing.
She sat bundled in quilts in a recliner that looked older than I am.
When she saw the pizza box, her eyes lit up like I’d handed her something rare.
“I try not to turn the heat on until December,” she said apologetically. “I have to save for my heart medication.”
She extended the plastic bag toward me.
“I counted twice,” she added. “Mostly pennies. Some nickels from the couch.”
I didn’t take it.
Instead, I glanced toward the kitchen.
The refrigerator door wasn’t shut all the way.
Inside: half a jug of water. A box of baking soda. A pharmacy bag stapled tight.
That was it.
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