The REASON Series - the Complete Collection by Zoey Derrick

a cab driven by Chuck - a nice man who’s old enough to be my grandfather and who says he’s a native of Minneapolis – ready to head back to my apartment. As we’re leaving the hospital campus, a really nice, sleek black Mercedes drives into the lot next to us. I can't be certain, but I think it’s the same one I saw in my neighborhood on Thursday night. And I'm pretty sure it’s Mikah driving.  
    I toss the thought aside. I don't want to hope that maybe he was coming back to see me. Or that it was even really him to start with.
    Fifteen minutes later, we are pulling up in front of my apartment. I reach into my bag to pay Chuck, but he stops me. "The hospital takes care of it," he says, smiling warmly. I try to tip him and he refuses that, too. Instead he helps me from the car and stays standing near the rear passenger door until I'm inside my building.  
    Once inside my apartment, I start to feel tired again and consider resting for a bit. But as much as I want to lie around all day, I have laundry – and now grocery shopping – to do. Better to stick to my routine.  
    I gather up my laundry bag and empty the contents of my hospital bag into it. I’m wearing a pretty cool pair of light purple scrubs Amanda found for me. The top is huge, but the pants are really comfortable. I leave the pants on and swap the shirt for a white t-shirt that used to say meh across the chest but has since faded. After taking a good look at my tummy during the ultrasound yesterday, I’ve realized that I'm going to start needing clothes here really soon. Most of the bottoms I own are pajamas or sweatpants with an elastic waistband, so those I know can wait to be replaced, but shirts are going to become a problem.  
    Once my laundry bag is packed, I grab a small envelope off of the fridge. It is addressed to my landlord and already has a stamp on it. I place the four money orders of a hundred dollars each inside — I got them when I cashed my check at the bank, like I do every payday — seal it, and throw it into my bag.
    I pull out the wad of cash from my wallet. All in all, there are about two hundred and thirty dollars here, but I don't need to be walking around these streets with this much cash. I pull out forty dollars, place the rest between the pages of my journal and put it back under my bed. I also grab the food stamps and the list of approved foods to look over while doing laundry and head out the door.  
    As I step outside, I throw my laundry bag sling-style across my back, over my purse. I look like Rambo with bag straps instead of belts full of bullets.
    It’s a little cloudy out today, and there is a fall chill in the air. I pull my hood up over my head and start walking the two blocks to the Laundromat. This time of day is nice. Sometimes people even say hi. No one says hi today, but I get some nods and smiles — which I return — from some of the people sitting or standing around outside their homes or shops.
    I get to the Laundromat and head over to load my card with enough for wash and dry, plus detergent. Find a washer, load it, start it and sit back to wait.  
    My stomach grumbles. I pat my tummy. Having eaten so much in the last day or so is going to make it hard to not eat. It's only eleven in the morning and I just ate breakfast three hours ago, but I’m hungry again. I let out a sigh and decide that I can afford something from the coffee shop next door, so I get up and head over there.  
    "Hi, Ms. Wilson," I say to the elderly woman coming in the door. She is here this time every Saturday. Most mornings we talk - about nothing really, but the company is nice in a boring old Laundromat. Ironically enough, she reminds me of Mrs. Wilson from those Dennis The Menace cartoons.
    "Hello, Vivienne. How are you today?" she asks.  
    "Better, thanks. I was going to go next door for a bagel. Would you like something?"  
    "Oh, no, dear. I have toast. Go have fun. Are you using your usual machine?" I nod. "I'll