Chapter 1

I sat at my kitchen table, sipping a hot mug of coffee as I clutched onto a newspaper in one hand, red pen in the other. I desperately circled any and all jobs that related to my field in nursing. I had barely scraped by with last month’s rent and I was sure that though my landlord, Mr. Greggs appreciated my home baked cookies, he’d expect a full month’s rent by the end of the month.

As though hearing me call for him, a loud tap interrupted my morning coffee. I walked slowly to the door, not bothering to peek through first. There was only one person who would check on me everyday.

“Morning, Mr. Greggs,” I greeted as I swung the door open. His frail form drowning in an oversized flannel shirt and baggy black pants. His hair had thinned significantly in the last year that I had known him and was cut short, with barely a few wisps remaining on his shiny, balding head.

“Good morning, Amy.” Wait for it – three, two, one, “How’s the job hunt going?” He croaked, his voice thick with the smoke of his morning cigarette. I wrinkled my nose at the smell. I couldn’t stand the odor.

“Good,” I smiled at him, “I’ll have something in no time.”

“I hope you do. I can’t eat anymore cookies.” He patted his pot belly with his hand as he spoke.

“You never get sick of my cookies, Mr. Greggs.” I teased him, holding the door open with one hand.

He snorted, “You’re right. Betsy loves them.” He replied sneakily, referencing his dog.

“Well, I was making a batch today but if it’s only Betsy who enjoys them, I may as well give them to Ms. Smith on the second floor.” I replied baiting him with the idea of giving anything to the nosy elderly neighbour that he avoided at all costs.

“Well, if you’re making, I’ll have, obviously.” He turned away mumbling to himself about  the old hag who lived downstairs. I could have sworn I heard him mutter something about eating my cookies. I always knew he had a soft spot for me.

I closed the door and went back to my newspaper, circling another position. Wanted: Nurse/caregiver capable of managing spinal cord injuries in a fourteen year old. Must be responsible and take position seriously. If interested, call 608-433-5789.

I stood up, stretching in the process before putting on my workout clothes and tying my blonde hair into a high pony tail. I grabbed my phone and keys, leaving my apartment. 

I jogged to the nearby gym for my weekly yoga class with Cole, entering the building already out of breath. That wasn’t the best sign.
“Hey!” Cole greeted loudly, p

opping her gum. Her bubbly personality shone through even at eight o’clock in the morning.

“Morning,” I replied in a much more acceptable tone, placing my belongings into a locker. “How’s work?” I asked, not fully mentally ready to have a full conversation but knowing Cole was expecting it.

“Great!” She chirped brightly. Cole worked as a morning news anchor. She was up and coming still, which meant that she had just gotten off of work an hour ago. I suppose that accounted for most of her chipper attitude. This was her evening after all. “You should have seen the dogs we had in studio today! The fluff!” She squeaked and I laughed as she placed both her hands on her round cheeks.

“I’m definitely watching the highlights later.” I always did.

Cole was the definition of happy-go-lucky. Every problem had a silver lining if you looked hard enough, and she looked alright. I met Cole in college where I had initially hated her. I couldn’t believe that someone as peppy as her was naturally that way. It took a lot of patience to realize that Cole was genuine. She had a pure soul. And her peppy spirit had found its calling as a news anchor.