glass dish that had sat beside one door and then another throughout the worst period of my life.
I scrubbed it until it shone.
Filled it with food I cooked myself.
Then I handed it to Angela across a table in a kitchen filled with good light.
“From the floor staff,” I told her, handing it over.
Angela laughed.
The real kind.
Because both of us knew there had never been a floor staff.
There had only been her.
In the end, there had simply been the people who showed
