The door opened just a crack, and an overweight African American woman with gray strands in her otherwise black hair peeked out. “Sherry?” The woman opened the door fully and gestured at her to enter. When she saw Madison, she froze. “Who’s that?”

“I’ll tell you in a second.”

“Where’s Jake?” she asked. “Is he all right?”

“Rita Mae, please.”

“Okay, okay. Come on in.” She stepped to the side and closed the door first with a small lock then with a larger bolt.

Madison suppressed a snort. The lock was safer than the door. One kick against the hinges of the door and it would be gone.

The elderly woman, maybe in her mid-fifties or early sixties, sank onto a worn-out booth. “I’m all ears.”

Madison took the tiny space in. Hopefully, she wouldn’t catch any diseases here. Don’t overreact. It smelled like cleaning agents, and there was no trash lying around. The inside reflected the tidy outside area. Yes, the plastic walls were dented, and yes, the little kitchen had also seen better days, but considering everything, this place could probably be called well taken care of. That didn’t change the fact that Madison felt claustrophobic in this tiny can.

Sherry took a seat at the other end of the booth, and Madison squeezed in beside her.

“They kept Jake in the hospital.”

Sherry’s friend sucked in a breath.

“I’m here to get his pajamas. I’m going back to the hospital to stay with him.”

The woman put one hand to her chest as if having a heart attack. “God almighty, is it that bad?”

“It’s his tonsils again.” Sherry rubbed her forehead as if that would help her to find the right words to explain what was going on. “The doctor wanted to keep him there and to operate on him as soon as the infection is under control.”

“The poor boy. It has to be really bad if they’re keeping him in.” Her eyes widened. “Heavens, is that covered by the insurance? If you need some cash…” With both hands, she heaved herself up, bent down, and fished a can out from under the booth. “I don’t have much saved, but…”

She had to be kidding. Had Madison somehow landed in a bad B-movie? The poor old woman was about to sacrifice her last saving to help her unfortunate neighbor? Not for the first time within the last few hours, Madison had to fight the urge to roll her eyes. Was there any cliché not met here? Where was the beloved three-legged cat or the grandson with the good heart but poor choice in friends waiting in jail for parole? Searching for the photos of a cat or grandson, she found none.

Sherry held up a hand. “Rita Mae, that’s so nice of you, but I don’t need your money.”