At the cashier, Sarah separated the pie ingredients from the rest of Mick’s groceries. She paid for it with cash Mick had left on the kitchen counter Friday morning. An envelope stuffed with cash, her first week’s pay. If the pie didn’t turn out, Sarah would eat it anyway. But if she were able to pull the culinary feat off, the homemade apple pie would be her thank-you gift to Mick, and hopefully—even though the gesture was small—it would help her feel less beholden. She had to do something because that extravagant dinner at The Palm restaurant had been an act of charity on his part. It embarrassed her to think about that night, how hungry she’d been, how noisy her stomach, but remembering also filled her with a sense of gratitude. When they’d arrived home, Mick had insisted she take all the leftovers. There were a ton of leftovers. Sarah had demurred at first. But he’d marched to the side of the house where the garbage cans were, lifted the lid, and insisted that if she didn’t want the food, he was going to throw it out. Said he’d “just asked the waiter to wrap the extra food up so the cooks in the kitchen wouldn’t be offended.” Sarah had snatched the food from him. Hadn’t realized until the food was safely in her arms, clutched against her beating heart like a lost child, that the “throw the food away” had been an elaborate bluff. It wasn’t anything he said that clued her in. It was the sudden happiness beaming out of his eyes. Pride was insisting she shove the bags of food back at him, but she didn’t. She’d said, “Thank you.” Granted her tone had been a little stiff and her cheeks flaming, but at least she had thanked him before she turned and fled up the stairs to the safety of her little apartment, the door locked securely behind her.

That food had saved her. No doubt about it. Sarah had carefully divided the food into seven portions. Kept the first three portions in the fridge, froze the other four so they would stay fresh and she’d have enough food to last her until payday.