She was certain she’d found a rug… but something inside was moving…

“Interesting woman. Walks like a queen, voice firm, confident. Maybe a businesswoman or some kind of ex-boss. Though, of course, that doesn’t matter now. If she helps, I’ll be grateful forever…”

Back home, she got to work: lit the stove, brewed tea, grabbed flour from the pantry to make flatbread. She poured boiling water into a pile of grainy dough, salted it, rolled it out with a bottle, and started cooking on an old tray.

“This’ll be tasty,” she thought, watching the flatbread brown.

Just as the flatbread was ready, the cabin door flew open. Margaret Peterson stood in the doorway, shivering, her face pale, hands clutching her side.

“Sarah, help…”

Sarah grabbed her arm and gently sat her on the bench. Margaret curled up, groaning:

“Oh, it hurts, hurts… I can’t starve, can’t handle the cold! And those drivers! Not one stopped, except one. I said, ‘Take me to Pineville!’ He said, ‘What’s your payment?’ Old lady, he called me! Me—nobody?!”

Margaret sobbed, and Sarah handed her half a warm flatbread.

“Is this from expired stuff?” Margaret frowned.

“No, just discarded. Sometimes flour gets bugs—I sift it and mix with boiling water. Tastes almost homemade. And good.”

“You surprise me!” Margaret paused, processing this. “In a hundred years, I’ve never seen this… and wouldn’t want to again.”

“You’re almost ninety, right?” Sarah ventured.

“Close enough. So what? Can’t get to town from here. And home… I don’t have a home. Just that creep who dumped me like a sack of dirt.”

“You’re not walking, are you?” Sarah pointed out. “That’s too hard for you.”

Then she noticed a familiar SUV outside. It pulled up to the dump, as if searching. Sarah realized: it was the man who brought Margaret.

“Aunt Maggie, quiet!” she whispered. “He’s back!”

Margaret raised an eyebrow, but Sarah already pulled her to the floor, pinning her with a knee:

“Not a sound! He might hear…”

Margaret flinched but stayed still. Outside, the man circled the trash piles, looked around, then headed toward the cabin. Sarah pressed a finger to her lips, helped Margaret into the cellar, covered it with plywood, and waited.

When a knock came, she took a deep breath and opened the door. A tall, burly man stood there, dressed expensively but with an air of disdain for everything around him.

“Good morning,” he began, eyeing Sarah with contempt. “You live here?”..