Chapter Text
Van's bus dumps her unceremoniously in Dayton, Ohio, in a part of town that seems to host nothing but a collection of fast-food joints and chain stores. She picks a direction and starts walking, and she trudges along until she reaches somewhere with apartment buildings and bus stops, a simulacrum of a real city, anyhow; she spends most of the last of her cash on a shitty hotel room and passes out.
In the morning she wakes with a pounding headache and counts out her money, which has dwindled to forty-three dollars. Not enough for another night at the hotel, but enough for another bottle or three.
And breakfast. She really should eat.
She finds herself at a diner, huddled in a booth, spiking her coffee. (How her mother used to take it, she thinks, and wants to vomit.) She orders eggs and toast but no bacon; she hasn't had a taste for meat since...well. She presses her fingers into the bruise on her jaw and lets the dull pain take over her senses.
The wheels on her suitcase are busted, and it's exhausting to drag it around all day. She finally finds an empty bus stop and sits down on the grimy bench, takes a few swigs from her bottle, and nods off.
Someone's shaking her awake. She lifts her eyes groggily and sees—a black uniform, a badge. Fuck.
"All right, lady," the cop is saying, "let's move it along."
"Randall," says a woman's voice—there are two of them?—"she looks pretty messed up."
"No shit, she's wasted." The male cop prods Van with his baton. "Let's go."
"No, I mean her face. I think we should take her to the women's shelter."
Randall the cop rolls his eyes. "Probably fell down the stairs. Maybe we should take her in to sober up."
"Randall, I'm serious. She looks like she's been beat up."
Randall groans. "All the way across town?" He sighs. "All right, get up. Let's go. We're gonna take you somewhere safe." Hazily, Van stands, and allows herself to be shepherded into the squad car.
"Somewhere safe" turns out to be: a large room full of wire-frame beds with thin mattresses, a severe woman who confiscates her booze and stores her suitcase somewhere. The cops leave quickly, and then it's just Van sitting on a bed, staring. The women in the beds around her mostly seem asleep or nearly there, but a few have raised their heads to watch her come in. No one talks to her. One woman is talking in her sleep, incoherent, and every so often she'll cry out like she's in pain.
Van lies back and stares at the ceiling, waiting for morning to come.
Her hands start to shake, midway through the night, and she knows what this is, has seen it dozens of times in her own house. Fuck. She falls into a fitful sleep for a while and wakes up sweaty and shaking, heart pounding.
They try to get her to meet with a counselor in the morning, and she can't think, can't focus on anything except her blinding headache. "No," she says, "no, I think I'll just—I'll just go."
The severe woman from the night before is gone, replaced by a younger woman who is overly smiley and whose voice hits a pitch that makes Van's headache, if possible, worse. "Now, that's up to you, but if you choose to go, we'll probably have to fill your bed! And you won't be able to come back, now, will you?"
"That's fine," Van grunts. "Can I have my bag?"
They reunite her with her suitcase, and she heads back out into the city. There's a liquor store across the street from the shelter, which strikes her as a little ironic, but she'll take it.
She sleeps in a doorway that night, taking care to find somewhere farther out of the way than the bus stop where she got picked up. She wakes to a guy about her age saying, "Aw, fuck."
She groggily opens her eyes.
"Come on, man, get out of here. People have to live here, you know."
It goes like this until she runs out of cash and booze, and then she sits under a bridge for two days and two nights, shaking uncontrollably, heart racing. She doesn't sleep, but even so, her mind is full of wolves and wilderness, gold-glinting necklace and sharpened sticks. She shudders and presses the bruise on her jaw.
When she can move again, she stops into a church and picks up a flyer for an AA meeting.
The meeting is full of good, God-fearing people, and she feels them recoil from her. But there's always coffee and donuts, for free, and a place to sit for a few hours without getting harassed.
When she finds a twenty on the ground, she buys another bottle and shows up to her next meeting dizzy and stinking of booze. They show her out, politely.
On her way out of the church basement, she sees a flyer with huge, block text that simply reads: LOST?
She takes the phone number and stuffs it in her pocket.
—
She's in the later stages of withdrawal again when she finally gets up the courage to call. She uses the pay phone outside the church, and she can barely hold the phone to her ear, her hands shaking badly.
"New Life Collective," says the voice on the other end of the phone.
That sounds good, Van thinks hazily. New life. "Yeah, I'm—" She thinks of the flyer in the church. "I'm lost."
"Then you've come to the right place," the voice says. "Can you get to our center? We're at—" They give an address.
"Sure," says Van, not sure where she is and not sure where the address is, but knowing she can cross the city in an hour or so, dragging her suitcase behind her.
She's exhausted when she arrives, and thirsty—she's always thirsty these days—and she expects the clean, polite woman who greets her at the door to recoil. She doesn't. "Van?" she asks instead.
Van looks up at her with wide, wide eyes. "Yeah," she manages. "That's me."
"We spoke on the phone. I'm Cassandra, but you can call me Cass. Can I get you anything?"
"Water," Van says hoarsely; she receives a plastic cupful and swallows it down. Then: "Bathroom?"
In the bathroom she looks in a mirror for the first time in days and sees her Pittsburgh bruises have turned a sickly yellow, almost gone. She can barely feel even the reliable one on her jaw anymore, even when she presses hard. She splashes water on her face. Still starvation-skinny, her head looks too big for her body. She retches into the toilet, but nothing but bile comes out.
When she comes out, Cass is sitting at her desk, but looks up. "We're having a community potluck tonight," she says. "You look like you could use a good meal."
Van quails under the scrutiny, but nods. But—"I don't have anything to bring."
Cass waves a hand as if discarding her concerns. "There's always room for one more," she says, and quirks a small smile. "It's vegetarian, I hope that's okay."
Van breathes a sigh of relief. "That's perfect." Her hands are still shaking.
"Here, sit, sit." Cass motions to the chairs that are set up like a makeshift waiting room. "It's not much, but you can wait here til dinner time if you want."
Van sits.
By dinner time, her nausea has mostly subsided, and Cass leads her into a room with a long table and people starting to gather, placing casserole dishes and disposable aluminum pans full of food onto the table. Three salads, two stir-frys, grilled mushrooms...Van's head is spinning. It feels like her first meal back in the hospital, but looks better, all homemade. She can't remember the last time she had a home-cooked meal. Certainly not at her mother's house. Maybe before, the last time she went to Tai's for dinner...
The thought of Tai clenches like a fist around her heart. She swallows and finds a seat next to Cass. On her other side is a vaguely handsome-looking guy who Cass calls "Danny," as in, "Danny, have you met Van yet?"
Van swallows hard and holds out her hand, still with a visible tremor. Danny grins, an oddly disarming smile, and says, "Nice to meet you, Van." His handshake is firm. "First time here?"
"Yeah," says Van, and then voices what she's been wondering for a while: "What exactly...is this place?"
Danny smiles again. "It's like our community center. We have events here, and Cass here answers the phones for us and does a little paperwork."
"Sure," says Van. She's getting full already. "And—who's us?"
"New Life Collective?"
"Yeah."
"Really just a group of people trying to make life better, I guess," he says, shrugging. "For ourselves, and for others. We do some political advocacy, but we also have these community meals, and there are a few bunks in the back for people who don't have anywhere else to go. We're not an official food bank or shelter, but we like to think we provide services to the community."
"Uh-huh." Van swallows another bite of mushroom.
"Have you met Rachelle?"
Van shakes her head.
"Well, you'll love her." Danny takes another forkful of salad.
"Van," Cass asks fro the other side of her, "I'm sorry if I don't know how to ask this, but—do you have a place to sleep tonight?"
"Not exactly," Van says softly.
"Would you—I hope this isn't weird to offer—the bunks are full right now, but my place has a couch, if you want to stay over."
"Honestly?" says Van. "That sounds fucking amazing."
Cass winces a little at the profanity, but beams at her. "Well, I'd love to have you. It's just down the street."
Cass' place is shabby but clean; the couch is lumpy and threadbare, but Cass gives Van some blankets and an extra pillow and sets her up with even a glass of water on the floor where she can reach it. Most importantly she offers a towel, and Van showers for the first time since the women's shelter. She changes into her sleep clothes and then looks away as she asks, "You got anything to drink?"
Cass shakes her head, looking a little sad. "I don't drink anymore," she says. "A lot of us are in recovery, at the Collective—if you want to talk about it..."
Van shakes her head. "I'm good. I'll be fine."
Cass comes to check on her one more time before bed, wearing soft white pajamas and looking angelic, her long dark hair pulled out of its bun and streaming down her back. She seems probably a few years older than Van, but she can't be sure. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah," says Van. She feels ancient in the WHS PE shorts that she's sleeping in. "Thank you so much, Cass. For—letting me stay here."
"Don't mention it," says Cass, and they head to bed.
Van wakes screaming again, but in an instant Cass is at her shoulder.
"Van? Van, you're okay, all right? You're safe."
Van's breaths shudder out of her, and she's shaking her head, eyes squeezed shut, murmuring, "No...no, no."
"Hey, shhh, it's okay. You're with me."
Tears leak out of Van's eyes. She lets her head fall to rest against Cass', and Cass strokes her arm, still whispering gentle soothing words.
—
Van wakes embarrassed, doesn't meet Cass' eyes when Cass offers her cereal. But she still manages to mumble, "Coffee?"
"Oh, I don't do caffeine, sorry," says Cass. "I have herbal tea if you want that?"
Van snorts. "No thanks. But cereal sounds good."
They eat across from each other at Cass' kitchen dinette, just two chairs and a table where they can barely fit two cereal bowls without them clanking against each other. They eat, spoons clattering, and it feels oddly domestic for a moment, like how it might have been if she'd had an apartment with Tai—
Van swallows hard. She puts her bowl in the sink, and starts packing up her things.
"Heading out?" Cass asks, and for a moment—does she sound almost disappointed?
Van shrugs. "I appreciate everything you've done for me, but—I can't take up any more of your life, okay, I'm sure you have a job to get to and like—people to see, and I just don't—"
Cass laughs almost musically. "Don't be silly, Van. I work at the center, so you can come with me if you want, and you're welcome to stay here until you're back on your feet."
Van huffs a sardonic laugh at that. "Yeah, not sure that's happening."
"Look, I can help you search for jobs around town, or I think there's an open position on the farm."
Van raises an eyebrow. "The farm?"
"The Collective's farm. It's just a little ways outside of town, I could drop you there on my way to work."
"Don't you walk to work?" Van asks. "You don't need to go out of your way for me."
"It's no trouble, I like it there. And there's always fresh zucchini to take home." She grins. "Well, not this time of year. But come on, get dressed, and I'll drive you out there."
Van feels small and grungy and broken next to Cass, who's almost comically tall and dressed in earth tones of green and brown. Van, in her ripped jeans and dirty red flannel, cringes at the mental picture of the two of them together. Cass doesn't seem bothered by it, and she ushers Van into the passenger seat of her Corolla. It's only a twenty-minute drive or so, and soon a small farm emerges, flanked by a smaller wooden building with a sign reading "Closed for the season—see you in May!"
"So, now the last frost is past, they're starting to till the soil and so on. Think you could handle some hard work?"
Van smirks. "Think I'll manage."
They pull into a small dirt parking lot and make their way towards a shed near the back of the farm. A man comes out to wave as they approach. "Cass! Who've you brought for me today?"
"Hey Xander," Cass says easily. "This here is Van. She's come to work."
Xander appraises Van, squinting as he sweeps his eyes from red hair down to sturdy boots. "Skinny, but you'll do. Let's get going."
Van glances at Cass. "I don't need to fill out, like...a job application?"
"Good enough for Cass is good enough for me," says Xander.
Van raises her eyebrows, but Cass looks unconcerned. "All right, Van, I'll pick you up when I'm done at the center, 'kay?"
"Sure," says Van.
The work is hard, and her body's not used to it. But Xander feeds her a small lunch, and once she's eaten she does better. Xander is almost pleased with her by the end of the day, which he communicates with a gruff half-smile.
Van enters Cass' car covered in dirt, apologizing.
"Don't you worry, this car has seen many things," says Cass mysteriously.
Van snorts. "Yeah?"
"Oh yeah. I wasn't always in the Collective. I've seen some rough times."
It's hard to imagine, Cass with her perfect teeth and shining hair, shooting up in an alley or wondering where her next meal would come from. But maybe that's not what she means. Van shrugs. None of her business anyway.
"So how was your day with Xander?"
"He doesn't talk much, does he?" Van asks.
Cass grins. "Nah, he plays it pretty close to the vest."
"Fine with me," says Van. "He was fine. Work was hard, but it'll be good." She realizes that not only did she not fill out an application, she didn't punch a clock or fill out employment paperwork, either. "How, um—" She stops, embarrassed.
"Xander pays cash," Cass says, seeming to read her mind. "Don't worry. He's a little paranoid about, you know, the government and stuff, but he's honest."
Van smirks. "Fair enough."
"You coming to the reading tonight?"
"The what?"
Cass smacks her forehead with the palm of her hand. "Darn it, sorry, forgot it's just for the Collective." She glances over at Van, and then winks. "Maybe they just won't notice if we sneak you in."
"You really don't need to do that," Van says quickly. "I don't want to get you in trouble or anything."
"Oh, it'll be fun!" says Cass. "Besides, I really want you to meet Rachelle."
Van shrugs. "If you say so."
The "reading" turns out to be a glorified poetry open mic, on a property adjacent to the farmland. Roughly hewn benches surround a fire pit, and various people in loose-fitting clothing recite their poems to a small crowd. One girl about Van's age, maybe even younger, struggles through reading her poem from a wrinkled notebook page, getting teary at the end. None of it's particularly good poetry, Van thinks, though she's never written a poem in her life outside of English class assignments and is maybe not the best judge of these things. She mostly zones out, sitting next to Cass and enjoying the crackling of the fire, which feels—in some sick way—like home.
After the last recitation, the crowd gathers in clumps of three or four. Van recognizes Danny from the dinner chatting with a few people, and then notices a woman dressed all in vibrant yellow, different from the mostly earth-toned crowd. She's tall, almost as tall as Cass, with voluminous dark curly hair. She looks to be in her early thirties, if Van had to guess. "Who's that?" she asks.
"Oh!" Cass beams. "That's Rachelle. I want to introduce you."
Van was able to change at Cass' apartment after work, but she still feels dirty and small next to the two women, as Cass brings her over to meet Rachelle. "Our fearless leader," she introduces Rachelle, but Rachelle rolls her eyes.
"Oh, nonsense. Just my name on the deed, is all. And who do we have here?"
"This is Van," says Cass, seemingly with pride. "She's new."
Rachelle grins at Van. "Very happy to have you here." She holds out a hand; Van shakes it. "Oh, I like a firm handshake. Excellent." Her eyes sparkle.
Van likes her immediately.
But soon Rachelle is whisked away by someone demanding her attention at her elbow, and Cass and Van head back to Cass' apartment. But for the first time in months, Van feels—something.