Chapter 15 Bitsy
The screen of her phone was the only source of light inside the cramped cabin of her car, casting a sharp, bluish glow over her face as she read the words for the fourth time.
You're off the clock until Monday morning. Keep the laptop closed this weekend, get some real food in you, and stay inside out of the cold. I expect you at the office at nine sharp. Don't be late, little one.
Bitsy stared at the text, her thumb hovering over the glass.
She hadn't responded when it came through the night before, and she still didn't know what to say now.
It wasn't just that the message was a direct order; it was the heavy weight behind it.
It felt less like a text from a prospective employer and more like a line drawn in the sand by someone who fully expected her to step across it.
That final phrase—little one—sent a strange, dizzying shiver straight down her spine, making her throat tighten as a familiar flutter of anxiety woke up in her chest. She had spent the last two years navigating a world where no one cared if she ate, slept, or froze, yet here was Wyatt, dictating her weekend from miles away.
She had ultimately locked her phone and shoved it under her passenger seat, choosing the silence of non-response over the vulnerability of answering him.
She had paid for it with a rough night. The temperature had plummeted below freezing, and even with the car's engine cycling on for ten-minute bursts to keep the heater throwing faint, lukewarm air, the chill had seeped deep into her bones.
Her lower back was a solid wall of stiffness from sleeping curled sideways across the backseat, her knees tucked toward her chest.
Slowly, Bitsy stretched her arms above her head, wincing as her spine let out a series of dull, tight pops.
Her skin felt gritty and stale, that unmistakable, suffocating feeling of having lived out of a vehicle for too long.
She desperately needed a shower. She needed to shave, to scrub the Bridgeport winter out of her pores, and to feel human again before Monday morning arrived.
But first, she had errands to run.
Sitting up in the cramped driver's seat, she pulled the heavy wool overcoat that was loaned to her even tighter around her frame.
She hadn't taken it off all night, keeping it wrapped securely around herself to help fight off the bitter, creeping cold that always leaked through the floorboards at dawn.
It was still freezing inside the small cabin, the morning air biting at her cheeks, and she huddled deeper into the vast fabric.
It wrapped around her like a protective, impenetrable fortress, the only thing keeping the severe chill at bay.
She looked down at the dark, expensive wool, her fingers tracing the neat stitching along the lapel. She couldn't walk into Enigma tomorrow wearing her threadbare hoodies and patched jeans. She wanted to look professional. She wanted to look like she belonged in his world.
More than anything, though she was loath to admit the needy, embarrassing truth to herself, she wanted to impress him. She wanted him to look at her tomorrow and see someone competent, someone worth the immense gamble he was taking on her.
With a heavy sigh, she turned the key in the ignition.
The engine groaned, a sputtering, rattling protest that made her stomach drop before the cylinders finally caught, settling into a rough, rhythmic shudder.
She put the car in drive and pulled out of the abandoned industrial lot, heading toward the western outskirts of the city where the commercial strips dissolved into dilapidated strip malls and gravel lots.
Treasure Town Thrift sat squeezed between a defunct appliance repair shop and a neon-lit tobacco outlet.
The faded yellow sign was peeling at the corners, but as Bitsy parked near the edge of the lot, she felt a flicker of hope.
She stepped out into the biting wind, keeping the coat pulled tightly around herself.
The store smelled of old paper and mothballs. It was quiet, the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead accompanied only by the rhythmic sound of hangers sliding along metal rods. Bitsy grabbed a plastic shopping cart with a squeaking front wheel and pushed it straight toward the women’s apparel.
Her chest tightened as she looked at the rows of clothing.
The anxiety of meeting the rest of the Enigma staff tomorrow was a physical pressure behind her ribs.
Wyatt was one thing—he was terrifying, but he was a singular, solid anchor.
The idea of walking past a front desk, dealing with security, and facing other professionals made her feel entirely transparent, like a stray dog trying to pass as a pedigree.
Determined to hide the cracks, she began methodically sorting through the racks. She forced her analytical mind to take over, checking tags, feeling fabrics, and inspecting seams.
It took nearly an hour of searching, but she struck a vein of luck in the back corner.
She found two pairs of tailored, high-waisted slacks—one in a dark charcoal and another in solid black—that looked barely worn.
She paired them with three silk blouses: a cream, a muted emerald green, and a soft lavender that didn’t have a single stain on the collar.
When she found a structured black blazer that fit her narrow shoulders without swallowing her alive, she almost cried with relief.
She took the bundle to the cramped, plywood changing rooms in the back, her heart hammering as she tried them on one by one.
Looking into the scratched, tilted mirror, she blinked.
With the blazer buttoned over the cream blouse, the frayed edges of her reality vanished.
She looked sharp. She looked like someone who belonged behind a sleek terminal.
Heading to the shoe section, she managed to unearth a pair of simple, leather nude flats that were scuffed only on the soles, and a pair of classic black pumps with a low, sensible block heel.
They weren't high enough to make her trip, but they gave her just enough height to feel stable.
Near the register, a structured black handbag caught her eye.
It was synthetic leather, but it had clean, minimalist lines and a heavy gold clasp that gave it an extra oomph of executive polish.
Her final stop was the coat rack. She went through it three times, her fingers flying through heavy wools, puffer jackets, and worn trenches.
She desperately needed her own coat so she could return Lennon’s tomorrow, but everything in her size was either torn or missing buttons, and the rest were massive, built for frames twice the size of hers.
She left the section empty-handed, a small bead of worry settling in her throat.
When the older woman at the register scanned the final item, Bitsy’s breath caught in her throat.
"That’ll be sixty-eight dollars and forty-two cents, sweetie," the cashier said kindly.
Bitsy’s hand trembled slightly as she counted out the cash she took from her hidden stash.
Sixty-eight dollars. It was the most money she had ever spent at one time in her entire life, aside from her car.
Every dollar gone felt like a brick pulled from the fragile wall of her survival fund, but she swallowed the rising panic, forced a polite smile, and thanked the woman.
She took her plastic shopping bags from the counter, walked back toward the entrance to slide her empty cart neatly into the corral line, and then carried her haul out to the car.
Her stomach let out a loud, hollow growl, reminding her she hadn't eaten since noon the previous day.
Instead of driving away, she walked across the lot to the convenience store connected to the nearby gas pumps.
The interior was warm and smelled heavily of grease and old coffee.
She bypassed the cooler and went straight to the roller grill, using a pair of metal tongs to slide a wrinkled hot dog into a bun, wrapping it tightly in a sheet of tinfoil.
She grabbed a small bag of barbecue potato chips and a bottle of water, paid the clerk in silence, and retreated to her front seat.
She ate quickly, almost mechanically, sitting in the relative privacy of her car while the winter wind buffeted the windshield.
The hot dog was greasy and salty, but the heat felt incredible against the roof of her mouth.
Once she finished, she wiped her fingers on a napkin, threw the trash into her makeshift trashcan, and put the car back in gear.
The local laundromat was only three blocks away; a brightly lit box filled with the roaring symmetry of commercial dryers.
Bitsy carried her thrift store haul inside, along with Lennon’s heavy wool coat.
She knew she couldn't return it smelling like the interior of her car, nor could she wear the thrifted clothes tomorrow without washing the scent of old dust out of them.
She selected a large machine in the corner, carefully separating the wool coat to wash on a delicate, cold cycle while her new blouses and slacks went into another.
Sitting on a hard plastic bench while the machines whirled and sloshed, Bitsy reached into her old duffle bag.
Her fingers brushed against the soft, synthetic fur of the small brown teddy bear she had tucked inside.
She didn't pull him out—the laundromat was too public for that kind of pathetic vulnerability—but she kept her hand resting against his small, stuffed head, using the familiar texture to steady her breathing as the dynamic rhythm of the washing machines hummed through the floorboards.