Jiggity-jig

"I'm ready," you say, standing and gathering your crossbody bag. "Let's head back."

Janelle nods, slides out of the booth, and drops a few bills on the table for her teas. She doesn't offer to pay for anything of yours—you didn't order anything—and you're grateful for that small dignity. She holds the door open as you leave, the bell chiming behind you, and the cool October air hits your face like a reset.

The drive back is quiet in a different way than the drive there. Less charged. Janelle keeps both hands on the wheel, the radio murmuring something acoustic and forgettable. You watch the farmland scroll past—brown fields, red barns, the occasional cluster of houses that constitute a neighborhood out here. Your reflection ghosts in the passenger window: cream blouse, gold clip, the faint redness around your eyes that no concealer could fully mask.

She likes you. She's driving forty minutes each way on Thursday because she likes you. And you can't even pay for your own therapy appointment without going broke.

The thought settles in your stomach like a cold stone. You're taking advantage. Not deliberately—she offered, she insisted—but the asymmetry gnaws at you. She gives and gives and you give nothing back except complications and emotional labor.

"You're quiet," Janelle says about halfway through the drive, her eyes flicking to you briefly.

"Just tired. It was a lot today."

"Yeah." She doesn't push. "There's ginger tea in the thermos if you want it. Mom packed extra."

You take the thermos. The tea is still warm, gingery and sweet, and it coats your raw throat like a balm. You drink in silence and Janelle drives in silence and somehow that's enough.

She pulls up to the estate at 5:40pm. The mansion looks different in the late afternoon—golden light catching the tall windows, the landscaping Theron maintains looking deliberately beautiful. Janelle shifts into park but doesn't turn off the engine.

"Thursday at one-thirty," she says.

"One-thirty. I'll be ready." You hesitate with your hand on the door handle. "Thank you, Janelle. For everything today."

"I told you—don't thank me for being decent." But there's a small smile there, crooked and real. "Get some rest tonight. You look like you need it."

You step out, close the door, and walk up the stone path. HAVEN's sensors recognize you—the front door unlocks with its soft mechanical whisper, lights warming to life in the foyer as you enter. You don't look back, but you hear Janelle's Civic pull away before you reach the kitchen.

Dinner is whatever HAVEN's automated pantry can produce from the basics you've stocked: scrambled eggs again, toast with the last of the butter, a handful of cherry tomatoes that are starting to wrinkle. You eat at the kitchen island, scrolling your phone with your free hand. Priya texted while you were driving: 'how did it go?? you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to' followed by a string of heart emojis. You reply with a thumbs up and 'good. really good. will tell you more later.'

After dinner you migrate to the living room, kick off your block heels—your feet ache in that specific way that's becoming familiar—and curl into the corner of the sectional with a throw blanket. HAVEN dims the lights when you ask, and you find a cooking competition show that requires exactly zero brainpower. Contestants panic about undercooked risotto. You watch their faces contort with stress and feel a distant kinship.

Tomorrow. Ask Margot about an advance. The consultation is seventy-five dollars and you have less than five. That's the math.

The show blurs into background noise. You're asleep before the contestants finish plating, the throw blanket pulled to your chin, your phone dark on the cushion beside you. HAVEN adjusts the thermostat down two degrees and dims the screen to standby.

Wednesday arrives with the estate's automated morning sequence—blinds rising, coffee machine starting, HAVEN's polite chime at seven. You have work at nine. And a conversation about money you're already dreading.