Chapter 2 The 72-Hour Warning

The eviction notice didn't leave my mind the next morning.

It followed me everywhere. In the shower. On the subway. While I stirred cheap coffee that tasted burnt no matter how much cream I added. Seventy-two hours. The words replayed like a warning siren I couldn't shut off.

I sat at my desk, staring at the same spreadsheet I'd been pretending to study for twenty minutes. Numbers blurred together. Rent overdue. Utilities behind. Program costs unpaid. The nonprofit wasn't just struggling. It was collapsing.

I pressed my palms flat against the desk and took a slow breath.

Panicking wouldn't save anyone.

Action might.

Before I made the next call, I stopped by the hospital. I needed air. I needed comfort. I needed to see Dad.

The automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss, and the smell hit me instantly. It clung to my clothes as I stepped inside, as if the building itself wanted to mark me.

The hospital corridor was too bright for how tired I felt.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, reflecting off white floors that smelled of disinfectant and something bitter underneath. I slowed my steps as I approached Dad's room, already bracing myself for the sight of him. Every visit felt like preparing for a small loss.

Halfway down the corridor, a nurse hurried past me, her expression tight, her shoes squeaking against the floor. A gurney followed, curtains drawn, wheels rattling softly. My heart stuttered. For one awful second, I wondered if it was him.

I stopped walking. My fingers curled into my coat sleeves, nails digging into fabric as I forced myself to breathe. Not him. Please, not him.

A monitor beeped somewhere nearby, sharp and insistent. The sound drilled into my skull. I stood there longer than I should have, caught between fear and denial, before finally moving again.

Dad's door was slightly open. I hesitated, my hand hovering near the frame. I listened first. The soft rhythm of machines. Slow. Measured. Still there.

Dad was awake when I walked in, his eyes half-open, his breathing shallow but steady. The room smelled like disinfectant and something faintly metallic. Machines beeped softly beside him, keeping time like a clock I didn't want to hear.

Relief washed through me so fast it left me dizzy.

I pulled a chair closer and sat, wrapping both hands around his. His skin felt thinner than it used to, fragile, like it might tear if I held on too tightly.

For a moment, he didn't speak. His gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling, as if he were counting something only he could see. I wondered how many moments like this he had left. The thought made my chest ache.

"You look tired," he said.

"I'm fine," I lied.

He turned his head slightly then, his eyes finding mine. They were duller than before, ringed with exhaustion, but still sharp enough to see through me.

"You don't have to be strong with me, Jane."

My chest tightened. "I know."

Silence settled between us, filled only by the steady beeping of machines. I watched his breathing, counting each rise and fall like it was something I could control.

The machine beside him hiccupped once, the sound uneven. I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. A nurse passed by the open door, glanced inside, and kept walking. The rhythm returned to normal. I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

"How's the center?" he asked quietly.

I swallowed. "It's... struggling. But I'm working on it."

The words felt thin. Incomplete. Lies wrapped in hope.

He squeezed my fingers weakly. "You always do."

His grip faltered for a second, and fear flared again, sharp and sudden. I leaned forward instinctively, as if my closeness could anchor him here.

I leaned forward, resting my forehead against his hand. "I wish Mom were here."

"So do I," he murmured. "She'd tell you to stop carrying the world alone."

I smiled sadly. "She always said that."

"Listen to her," he said. "And listen to me. Whatever happens, I'm proud of you."

Whatever happens.

When I finally stood to leave, my legs felt weak. I paused at the door, turning back once more, afraid of what I might see. He was asleep now, his face calm, unaware of how close I felt to breaking.

When I finally left, his words followed me down the hall like a quiet blessing I wasn't sure I deserved.

By noon, I swallowed my pride and called a consultant a volunteer once recommended. His office was small and smelled faintly of lemon cleaner. He listened while I explained everything, nodding slowly, and fingers steepled under his chin.

"You need an investor," he said finally. "Not a loan. A sponsor."

I let out a shaky laugh. "I run a nonprofit, not a tech startup."

"Doesn't matter," he replied. "You have impact. That's valuable."

Hope stirred, fragile and cautious.

We talked numbers. Potential donors. Emergency funding. I told him about the man who scammed us, my voice tightening as I admitted how desperate I'd been. He didn't judge. That alone felt like mercy.

"I'll make some calls," he said. "No promises."

I thanked him and left, clutching my bag like a lifeline.

The afternoon dragged. I reorganized files that didn't need organizing. I wiped down shelves already clean. Every time the phone rang, my heart jumped, then fell when it wasn't news.

By evening, my head ached and my hope felt thinner than paper.

I was locking up when my phone finally rang again.

"Jane Riley?" a woman asked, her voice crisp and confident.

"Yes."

"I'm calling on behalf of a private sponsor interested in supporting your nonprofit."

My breath caught. "Interested how?"

"He's prepared to invest substantially," she said. "Enough to stabilize your organization and expand its reach nationwide."

My knees nearly buckled.

"This... this could save us," I whispered.

"It could do more than that," she replied. "He'd like to meet you tomorrow."

Tomorrow.

"Yes," I said quickly. "Of course. Anytime."

She gave me a time and ended the call.

I stood there long after the screen went dark, my heart pounding so hard it hurt.

That night, I barely slept. My mind raced with possibilities. Rent paid. Programs saved. Kids safe. The nonprofit thriving instead of barely surviving.

Maybe this was the second chance life owed me.

The next morning, I arrived early. I straightened chairs, wiped the desk, replaced the dying plant with a borrowed one from Sophia's apartment. I even wore my good blazer, the one that made me feel like I knew what I was doing.

Sophia stopped by with coffee and nervous smiles.

"This could change everything," she said.

"I know," I replied. "I'm scared to believe it."

She squeezed my hand. "You've earned something good."

At ten sharp, footsteps echoed outside the office. I smoothed my blazer and stood, rehearsing my greeting in my head.

The door opened.

For one breathless second, I didn't understand what I was seeing.

Then my heart stopped.

Daniel Logan stood in my doorway, older, sharper, impossibly familiar.

And just like that, the past walked back into my life.