The cooking area was dark, illuminated solely by the ajar refrigerator. I walked in and trembled. It felt even chillier indoors than it did out on the porch!
“Over here,” the voice yelled out.
I walked into a cramped sitting space.
Mrs. Higgins rested in a battered armchair, illuminated by a single flame dancing on an end table. She was wrapped in so many quilts that her face appeared ridiculously tiny.
Her gaze fixed entirely upon the food carton I carried.
“Ma’am,” I spoke nervously, “are you… doing okay? It is quite freezing in this place. Very dim, as well.”
“I am absolutely alright. I leave the thermostat down since my prescriptions take priority. That is the one expense I cannot avoid.”
Next, she reached toward the small desk next to her and slid a clear food bag in my direction.
It was packed with loose change.
Silver and copper pieces. An entire existence of gathered pennies.
