The thunder roars and ravages the earth as it rains cats and dogs.
I lay curled on my worn-out mattress, tears soaking my torn pillow.
My body shakes with every boom, but not just from the storm. I just lost another job. The third one this year.
Another thunderclap cracks the sky open, and I jump right out of my bed, sprinting to the far corner of my tiny bedroom.
My hands clamp over my ears. My knees hit the hardwood floor hard, but I don't feel the pain.
I only feel the noise—the deep, angry growl of the sky.
I hate thunder. Always have. Mama used to hold me during storms, humming that old lullaby about the sun coming out tomorrow.
But Mama is gone now. Cancer took her two years ago, along with all our savings.
I stay curled in a ball, bawling my eyes out until the thunder claps finally fade.
The storm passes, or so it seems. But the storm inside me keeps raging.
I stay curled up, my left hand pressed to my forehead, my right hand playing with the hole in my worn-out nightdress.
A million thoughts race through my mind.
Why does everything fall apart?
Life is cruel, I think. Nothing ever works in my favor.
I stare at the ceiling. There's a water stain shaped like a cloud, spreading from the corner where the roof leaks.
My apartment is small—one bedroom, a bathroom with a toilet that runs all night, a kitchenette where the stove only lights on the third try.
It's not much, but it's mine. Or it was. Without a job, I won't even have this for long.
My phone buzzes on the floor beside my mattress. I don't move. Probably another bill collector.
Or the temp agency telling me they have nothing else. I let it buzz until it stops.
Then it buzzes again.
I groan, rolling onto my side, and grab it. The screen glows too bright.
I blink at the name: Henderson – Temp Agency.
My thumb hovers. Henderson is the man who called me about the last job—the one that fired me after two weeks because the mother said I was "too quiet around her husband." I wasn't quiet. I was professional. But it didn't matter.
I answer anyway. "Hello?"
"Naomi Abbot?" His voice is smooth, unhurried, like a man who has never been late on rent.
"Yes." I clear my throat, trying to sound like I haven't been crying. "This is she."
"This is Henderson. I'm with Aaron Executive Services. We spoke last month about a nanny position?"
My heart gives a little jump. "I remember. You said the family went with someone else."
"They did. That arrangement didn't work out." He pauses, and I hear papers shuffling. "The position is open again.
Mr. Aaron would like to meet you tomorrow."
Mr. Aaron. I've heard the name. Everyone in D.C. has. Kaelen Aaron is a billionaire—real estate, private equity, half the buildings downtown.
But there are whispers, too. The kind you don't repeat. The kind that follow you home.
"Tomorrow?" I repeat. My voice cracks.
"Is that a problem?"
"No. No problem." I sit up, pulling my knees to my chest. "What time?"
"Ten in the morning. I'll send a car. Be ready."
A car. I look at my reflection in the dark window—messy hair, puffy eyes, a nightdress with three holes. "I can take the bus."
"Mr. Aaron prefers punctuality. The car will come." His tone leaves no room for argument.
"Okay. Thank you, Mr. Henderson."
"Henderson is fine." There's a warmth in his voice now, almost fatherly. "You'll be fine, Naomi. Just be yourself. The boy needs someone kind."
The boy. I picture a child—maybe a toddler, maybe older. I don't know much about Kaelen Aaron, except that he's a widower.
The whispers say his wife died tragically. Some say she ran off. Others say worse. I don't listen to whispers. I need a job.
"I'll be ready," I say.
"Good. Get some rest." He hangs up.
I lower the phone and stare at the ceiling again.
The rain has softened to a drizzle, tapping against the window like fingers on glass.
My heart is still racing, but not from thunder now.
This is it, I tell myself. A chance.
I push off the mattress and walk to the bathroom. The light flickers. I splash cold water on my face and look in the cracked mirror.
Twenty-six years old, and I look like I've lived twice that. Dark circles under my eyes. Lips cracked from crying.
But my eyes—Mama always said my eyes held honey. I stare at them now, looking for some of that sweetness.
"You can do this," I whisper to my reflection. "One good break. That's all you need."
The toilet gurgles behind me. I ignore it.
I go back to my room and pull open the closet.
My clothes hang on wire hangers—mostly secondhand, mostly faded.
I run my fingers over them until I find my best dress: a simple navy blue shift that doesn't show stains. I bought it for Mama's funeral.
It's the only thing I own that looks like I belong somewhere important.
I lay it across the chair by the window and sit on the edge of my mattress.
My phone buzzes again. A text this time, from an unknown number.
Car at 9:45. Be outside. – Henderson
I don't reply. I just hold the phone against my chest and close my eyes.
The storm is over. Outside, the city hums—distant sirens, a neighbor's television, the drip-drip-drip from my leaky roof.
Ordinary sounds. But inside me, something new stirs. It feels almost like hope.
I lie back down, still in my nightdress, and stare at the water-stained cloud on my ceiling. I think about Mama.
I think about the jobs I lost, the money I owe, the empty space in my chest where security should be.
And I think about a boy who needs someone kind.
Maybe, I whisper to the dark. Maybe this time.
The rain stops. The silence wraps around me like a blanket. And for the first time in weeks, I sleep without dreaming.