"Your chicken fricassee tastes like mud." I tell Cynthia. It's been a few days since the last decent meal she cooked; we had this same conversation many times, so I know exactly what she's going to say next. "And yeah, I know you didn't mean to."

"I'm so sorry Mathilde. Do you want me to make something else for you?" She offers, but she's absent-mindedly picking on her food, and not really eating. Whatever happens to her, it's obviously a big deal.

"What I want to know is what got into you and why the hell your food tastes so bad lately."

"I'm so sorry." She says, standing and carrying her plate to the sink. Something's off, but this stubborn woman never speaks her mind.

"Bring a couple mugs of coffee while you're there!" I shout at her. It pisses me off to no end when she's like this, and she should know it by now. I seriously want to pick my crutch and smack this woman's head with it.

She comes with the coffees a few minutes later, placing a cup in front of me.

"You're not serious if you think for a second I'm going to drink this thing without my cream."

"Ah, yes. Your cream. I'm so sorry, I'll go get it right away."

Wherever the hell her mind is, it's not inside this house, and it's driving me nuts. She sets my cream on the table.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you dare play fool with me, Cynthia Dawson!" I snap, pointing my spoon at her. "Not only did you forget to bring sugar for coffee, you have the same defeated face you had at the hospital the day we met. Something's wrong, and it's clear on pretty much everything you do lately, so start spilling already before my blood pressure gets high!"

She slumps in her chair and clenches her teeth. She lets out a ragged sigh, and it's obvious she's about to lose it. She only needs another little push so I reach across the table and hold her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. The first tear falls from her eyes, and she finally starts talking.

"I got an eviction letter." And letting the words out makes her break into the most heartbreaking crying fit I've ever seen. "I have to get out of my house by Friday."

This certainly explains a lot. Without a proper job, and now without a place to live, she risks even losing Jeanne to those government ass-hats. No wonder she looks so desperate. This woman is cursed, I tell you.

"When did you get the eviction letter?"

"It arrived in the mail last week." About the same time she started behaving like this.

"I'm assuming you have nowhere else to go." Bravely fighting back her tears, she shakes her head.

"I've been looking for something cheap I could rent, but..."

"Yes. I can imagine." I snap again. I'm not in the mood to let this girl drown me in tears. "I have something to tell you, so stop that silly crying and pay attention because I'm saying it just once. I don't know what the hell are you going to do, but if you let Jeanne spend a single night in the shelter, I'll kick your ass all the way to Argentina, and back. I have a guest room, you know this. So if you're not picky about it, I guess I can let the two of you stay there until you manage to poke your head out of that hole."

"Mathilde, I can't— "

"Damn right! You can't say no to me." And since she needs a little push again, I add, "Pack your things and bring that sweet daughter of yours here with me. Like I told you in your first day here, this house is too damn big for me alone, and as you can probably tell, I could use some company."

She stopped crying, Christ almighty! But she's opening her mouth and probably ready to talk back, so I cut her short,

"I'm not accepting a no from you, Cynthia. Now go get the damn sugar already."