I served drinks, brought dishes, cleaned tables and gradually remembered what it felt like to be respected for my work.
At night, I would sit on Aunt May’s porch and watch the sun sink into the ocean. Gradually, my shoulders relaxed. I started sleeping all night. I laughed without wondering if anyone was recording me.
Six weeks after my arrival, a stranger staggered into the restaurant and collapsed near the counter.
His shirt was stained with blood from a wound on his side. For a moment of terror, I thought Kyle had found me and had prepared another cruel performance.
Then the man looked at me in unmistakable pain.
“Help,” he whispered.
I took clean towels, pressed them against the wound, and told Martha to call the emergency services.
“Stay awake,” I said. What’s your name?
“Grant.”
“He holds it, Grant. Help is on the way.”
Paramedics arrived quickly and took him away.
