Page 61 of His By Contract

Her hands found their rhythm again, the needle piercing fabric in steady beats. A torn seam here, a loose button there. The work required just enough focus to keep her hands busy while leaving her mind free to plan her afternoon shift at the diner. Table five always tipped well if she remembered extra napkins. Table twelve liked their coffee topped off without asking.

The bell above the shop door chimed, followed by the soft thud of it closing. Georgia barely registered the sound anymore, just another note in the daily symphony. She guided another pair of pants through the machine, the steady whir drowning out everything else.

Her fingers moved automatically to tie off the final stitch, muscle memory taking over. Every long hour, every aching muscle served a purpose. Theo needed new shoes. He needed food, clothes, a safe place to sleep. The thought of his smile, the way his eyes lit up when she tucked him in at night, made the endless work bearable. Worth it. She’d do anything to keep him safe, to give him the childhood he deserved, even if it meant spending her days breathing in fabric dust and her nights carrying plates of greasy food.

That evening, Georgia balanced three empty glasses on her tray, weaving between the crowded tables at Murphy’s Bar. The familiar scent of stale beer and fried food clung to her uniform,mixing with the low hum of conversations and country music from the ancient jukebox. Her feet ached in her worn sneakers, each step a reminder of the double shift she’d pulled at the thrift shop earlier.

A burst of laughter erupted from the corner booth where the Thursday night regulars gathered. She kept her eyes down, focused on collecting empties from table six. The less attention she drew, the better. After three months of serving drinks here, she’d mastered the art of being forgettable.

“Hey, sweetheart, another round over here.” The man at table four raised his hand without looking up from his phone.

“Right away.” Georgia’s voice stayed neutral, professional. She’d learned to make herself sound pleasant, but unmemorable.

The sharp tap of glass on wood cut through the bar’s noise. Another customer, another empty drink demanding attention. She added it to her tray, careful to keep her movements efficient. No wasted steps, no lingering conversations.

“About time,” the man muttered as she lifted his glass. “Service here gets worse every week.”

The words rolled off her like water. She’d heard worse, dealt with ruder customers.

Tom, the bartender, gave her a quick nod as she approached. He lined up fresh drinks without conversation, their routine well established by now. The ice clinked against glass, a steady rhythm beneath the bar’s chaos.

While wiping down table eight, fragments of conversation drifted from the booth beside her. Two women, probably in their mid-twenties, leaned close over their cocktails.

“So then Mike says we should look at getting a place of our own,” one said, twirling her straw. “Can you believe it? Like we’ve got that kind of money just lying around.”

Her friend laughed. “God, at least he’s thinking about the future. Jason still can’t commit to dinner plans more than two days ahead.”

Georgia’s hand stilled on the sticky table surface. Their voices painted pictures of normal lives: weekend plans, relationship drama, dreams of settling down and building something lasting. Futures that felt within reach, not distant dreams. She forced her fingers to move again, scrubbing harder at a stubborn ring mark.

Georgia’s shoulders burned as she stacked the last of the dirty glasses into the dishwasher. Hours on her feet had turned her muscles to concrete, each movement a negotiation with her exhausted body. She pressed her palm against her lower back, trying to ease the ache that had become her constant companion. The familiar motions of wiping tables and restocking napkins required little thought, just the hypnotic flow of hands drifting back and forth, of time trickling away moment by moment.

The late-night crowd had thinned to a few stragglers nursing their final drinks. The jukebox played something soft and country, nearly drowned out by the clinking of glasses and murmured conversations. She’d learned to find comfort in the predictability of it all. No surprises, no expectations beyond keeping drinks full and tables clean.

Tom caught her eye from behind the bar and jerked his chin toward the door. “Get out of here, Georgia. We’re dead anyway.”

She nodded, already untying her apron. The back room smelled of bleach and old mop water, but her worn canvas jacket hung exactly where she’d left it, a small mercy in a long day. The faded fabric was fraying at the cuffs, and the lining had gone thin from years of use, but it was better than nothing against the night air.

The cold hit her like a physical force as she stepped outside, seeping through the gaps in her clothes. She tugged the jacket tighter, ducking her head against the wind. Her steps quickened automatically, body moving on autopilot toward home.

Theo’s sniffling face from that morning flashed in her mind. He’d tried to hide it, brave little soldier that he was, but she’d seen him wiping his nose on his sleeve when he thought she wasn’t looking. The apartment’s ancient heating system barely functioned, leaving their rooms perpetually chilled. The blankets from the discount store were thin, barely adequate for autumn, let alone the approaching winter. She’d planned to save up for a warmer comforter, but the colder weather had arrived faster than expected, catching her off guard.

New shoes had been on her mental list for weeks, right alongside warmer blankets and proper cold medicine. But the tips had been getting lighter as the weather turned colder, people holding tighter to their cash with the holidays approaching.

The worry sat heavy between her shoulder blades, a familiar weight she’d learned to carry. Each step brought her closer to home, past the darkened storefronts and empty sidewalks. The streetlights cast long shadows, but she barely noticed them anymore, focused only on moving forward.

The sight of their building made her steps quicken. A faint glow filtered through the thin curtain of their studio window, abeacon drawing her home. The stairs creaked under her feet as she climbed, each sound echoing in the quiet hallway.

Georgia pushed open the apartment door. Mrs. Miller stood in their tiny kitchen, wringing her hands. The older woman’s usual calm demeanor had cracked, worry lines creasing her forehead.

“He’s not well, Georgia. Started running a fever a few hours ago.”

Georgia’s stomach dropped. She brushed past Mrs. Miller, her exhaustion forgotten as she rushed to the twin bed tucked in the corner of their studio apartment. Theo lay curled beneath the thin blankets, his dark hair plastered to his forehead.

“I tried to get him to eat the pasta you left,” Mrs. Miller’s voice followed her. “But he wouldn’t touch it. Just kept whimpering in his sleep.”

Georgia’s hands shook as she dug through her apron pocket, pulling out crumpled bills. “Thank you for staying late.” She pressed the money into Mrs. Miller’s palm, barely registering the woman’s quiet departure.

The door clicked shut, leaving Georgia alone with the sound of Theo’s labored breathing. She knelt beside the bed, her fingers gentle as she brushed damp strands from his face. His skin burned against her palm.

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