After the divorce, I found a new job. Every day on my way there, I would leave some money for the elderly woman who always sat by the station, a woman who looked like life had pressed her into the concrete. One gray April morning in Atlanta, as I was about to drop a few coins into her tin cup and hurry to catch the MARTA train downtown, she grabbed my hand with a surprisingly strong grip and whispered, ‘You should stay somewhere else tonight. Don’t go home.’
For a second that morning, when my alarm went off, I couldn’t remember where I was. Then my eyes landed…