Page 55 of Shades of Silver City

“And you don’t think that’s a privilege?”

“Work is exactly what it sounds like. Money isn’t just handed to me. I earn it. I learned to spend my time—and my money—wisely.” And I chose art over drugs. Oil pastels over drinking.

“Many of these people don’t have the choice of working. They don’t have the strength to choose to live differently.” He sighs, giving me a look that can only be interpreted as disappointed. “Your resources and opportunities might not have been ideal, but you had access to more than most.”

“I understand where you’re coming from, but I still chose the hard path.”

“Not everyone has the opportunity, or the strength, to choose.” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. His mouth twists into a wounded grimace. “Your strength, Tasia, is something I admire greatly about you. I sensed it the first night we met. I’m glad you were able to take a different path, but you’re greatly mistaken if you don’t view it as a privilege.”

He strides away, his shoulders slumped more than usual, leaving me with a lump in my throat and fire in my cheeks.

For a second, I watch him go. Then, without the lens of judgment, I re-examine the alley. Now, rather than seeing people who chose drugs or drinking, chose not to work, or chose the “easy way out,” I see it in a new light.

What if Jeremiah hadn’t taken a chance on me?

What if I hadn’t had Reed’s friendship?

What if Stace and Alisha hadn’t let me room with them?

Moreover, what if any one of these people here in the alley had had the same opportunities I did? What I said to Archer earlier is true: we’re all one decision away from a different life. But we can only make decisions based on the resources and opportunities given to us.

And that is the true privilege.

The realization sends an earthquake of guilt and gratitude through my body.

“You’re right!” I shout, my voice hoarse. Archer stiffens, straightens his shoulders, then turns to look at me. I jog to catch up to him. “You’re right. I’m—sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me. Just try to give grace to your neighbors.”

My cheeks heat further, and I nod. “Did you struggle?”

“No,” he says, glancing away. “Someone close to me did.”

“Did they find their way out?”

His gaze meets mine, hardening. “They died.”

My heart drops. I open my mouth to reply—

“Not you again, asshole,” someone says abruptly. A man shuffles up to us, his dark hair greasy, his face streaked with dirt, and his white tank stained with sweat. A dusky blue hue encompasses his body. “I toldya, I’m not coming home with ya, boy.”

Archer’s demeanor shifts. His muscles relax, and his face softens into a look of amusement. “Remy.”

“Asshole.”

I glance back and forth from the two men. “Aren’t you going to scold him for his language?” I ask Archer.

He chuckles but doesn’t say anything, only reaches into his jacket, pulling out a few silvers and placing them in Remy’s hand. At first, the man refuses, but Archer insists.

“You need to eat,” Archer tells him. “You’re all bones and sarcasm these days.”

Remy mutters to himself, frowning. He gives me a slow once-over. “Finally got a wife?”

“Nope,” Archer says.

“Shame. Got good birthing hips, this one.”

I gasp, not expecting that comment. “You—”

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