Lock Up

The job at the library had saved her life. She quickly earned the trust of the manager and became the employee who set the alarm and locked the building after everyone left.

She would wave as her coworkers drove away, turning down the rides offered.

"He's leaving work now," she'd say.

There was no he. As far as her coworkers knew, she lived with her boyfriend and he drove her to and from work. Since he worked long hours at the mail depot, he dropped her off before the library opened and picked her up late.

It was true enough. She had lived with a boyfriend, and he had worked long hours. But back then, she had her own car too. She sold it to help make rent. She should have known; it's more valuable to have a car you can live in than sell it to keep the landlord off your back. She'd learned a lot over the past year.

Now she didn't have a car, a boyfriend, or an apartment. She had her job at the library and a locker in the breakroom where she kept her clothes in a tote bag. She was the only employee with a combination lock on the door; not because she didn't trust the others, but because she'd die of embarrassment if they found out her locker was her closet.

Once a week she waited until her coworkers left the parking lot and she'd go to the laundromat to wash and dry her clothes. She sometimes washed underpants and socks in the bathroom sink and let them drip dry overnight, but only when she was desperate. She had nightmares of leaving her underwear hanging up to dry when the others clocked in.

She loved working at the library, and she loved living there even more.

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