She hates the beginning of this so much. Her fingers tightening together over the center of her stomach, the most marginal of movements, not wanting to and still trying to picture him homeless. On the streets. Sleeping in alleys. Starving. Drinking. Then, jumping at the first chance he could for stability. Shelter, food, money, a job.

It's not all that different in the terms of how she found her feet, is it?

She was just lucky enough to have run into the right place that first night. Into the hands of people who didn't put her back out on the streets the same night. Who stepped in to help her, when she was still at the edges of barely being able to help herself, still only stumbling steps from nearly having been on death's door that same morning. Who gave her a bed and food, and then work when she proved able.

What wouldn't she have considered if it'd been days, or weeks, later instead?

There's no judgment, but Allison's head tilts a little,
like she can't actually keep herself from asking,

"And that's all you did for him?"