“Don’t you mean tropical storm?”
“That’s what it is now, but every few hours, it sounds like it’s gaining more traction. The weatherman is saying this might really be serious.”
I sucked my teeth, refusing to believe the hype. I’d been a resident of Jacksonville for over five years. Although the city had a history of hurricanes, nothing significant had occurred since I’d been here, only a few tropical storms that brought some wind or minimal flooding damage.
“Don’t say that! This is the first Fourth of July that I actually have plans. I bought my plane ticket months ago.”
Jess nodded while swiping her shoulder-length auburn hair behind her ear. “Oh, that’s right. You’re going on that trip with your friends, right?”
I bobbed my head. “Yeah. Miami. I’m supposed to be flying out tomorrow afternoon and meeting them there. I still need to pack.”
I’d already managed to squeeze in time to get my hair braided, a mani and pedi, and a wax, all in the days leading up to the trip. Throwing my bikini and a few outfits into my suitcase was the final thing on my to-do list.
“Well, good luck, girl. I really hope your flight doesn’t get delayed or canceled.”
“Don’t wish that on me!”
“I’m not. I’m just saying I hope that doesn’t happen.”
“That makes two of us,” I said before settling into my chair and shaking the mouse to wake up the computer from its slumber.
Emails flooded my inbox: pleas for help, updates from court clerks, andreminders of the endless red tape that tried to strangle hope. I sifted through them methodically, replying where I could and flagging those that required more attention for later.
It wasn’t long before the next client walked in—a Hispanic woman with etched lines of worry in her face deep enough to rival the grooves in our battered old waiting chairs. She clutched a stack of eviction notices like they were a shield that could somehow protect her from the inevitable.
“Mrs. Alvarez, let’s see what we can do,” I said, guiding her into the small consultation room.
She poured out her story between sobs. Her landlord wanted her out, there were rent hikes she couldn’t keep up with, and she had no family left to turn to since they’d all been deported. I listened, nodding where appropriate, letting her words fill the space between us. Sometimes, all people wanted was to be heard.
“Okay, we’ll fight this. You’re not alone,” I assured her, already plotting our countermoves against an unforgiving system.
My heart throbbed with a familiar ache, the kind that came from wanting to fix more than I ever could.
“Gracias,” she whispered, her voice cracking like thin ice underfoot.
“Let’s start by drafting a response to your landlord and look into emergency housing options,” I suggested, my fingers flying over the keyboard as we spoke.
When she left, she carried a different set of papers, ones filled with legal jargon that formed a temporary barrier against her storm. And though the weight in her eyes hadn’t lifted entirely, there was a flicker of something else there now. Hope, maybe. Or just the relief that comes with having someone else shoulder part of the burden.
As I watched her go, a piece of me went with her, out the door and into the chaos of the day. I cared. Maybe too much. But that caring was what kept me going. Every piece of paper, every call, it was all part of the bigger battle of justice for all.
The hours rolled on, a blur of faces and files and a series of calls, research, and strategy. Each one was unique yet bound by the common thread of needing help, my help. I fought for extensions, appealed denied benefits, and explained legalese in plain terms. Each small victory was a quiet triumph, each setback a reason to push harder.
“Good work today, Sawyer,” Jenna, a fellow legal aid, said, her voice pulling me back to the present.
“Thanks,” I managed, the exhaustion creeping in around the edges of my determination.
But I pushed it away. There was still so much to do, and I was just getting started.
As the sun began to dip low, I leaned back in my chair. The office had emptied out, the hum of activity replaced by the soft clicking of my nails against the keyboard as I typed up my last few notes for the day.
Sure, I was tired. But there was something satisfying about knowing that I’d made a difference. I wasn’t one to back down from a fight, not now, not ever.
I shuffled out of my car, my feet heavy with the day’s wear. Each step homeward felt like a slow peel away from the layers of tension that had coiled around me since morning. The city was transitioning from day to night, and with each step I took toward my apartment door, my shoulders sank lower, easing me toward relief.
The lock clicked open, and I pushed into my apartment. Butta immediately greeted me with a happy bark and excited tailwag. I quickly scooped him into my arms, cradling him for a few short seconds before putting him back on the ground. I kicked off my shoes and let my bag thud against the floor, the sound oddly comforting in its finality.
I flicked on the lamp, bathing the room in a soft glow that pushed back the creeping shadows. I stood there for a moment, just breathing. My kitchen counter was cluttered with mail I hadn’t sorted through and a few magazines I didn’t remember ordering. The familiarity of it all was oddly comforting.
