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the driver‘s side and slams her door.
    â€œSpill it, Pam. I know the money is not right, but y’all have had this issue before.”
    I swallow hard. I don’t know if I’m ready to share this struggle. “Yvonne, I’m just stressed.”
    â€œIt‘s more than that. How are your book proposals going?”
    â€œI got an offer from Gideon Publishing. A two-book deal.”
    â€œThen why are we not celebrating?”
    â€œWhy do you think? Mr. Dream Killer himself, Troy didn’t even congratulate me. He was mad that I didn’t get offered more money, because he’s got yet another trick up his sleeve for that Aria.”
    â€œYou have got to be kidding me, Pam. What is his problem? You’ve been praying about this open door for years.”
    I let out a long, weary sigh. “Tell me about it. He had the audacity to tell me I need to get a job!”
    â€œOh, my Lord. Come on, Pam. Give me your hands, girl. We have to pray about this.”
    Yvonne grabs both my hands and begins her supplication, which I promptly tune out. She’s praying for the book deal to pan out, for opportunities, and saying all the right things. Yvonne is a prayer warrior; I learned this about her when she was going through her divorce.
    While Yvonne pleads the blood over Troy’s ignorance and names and claims open doors and windows of heaven, I watch a woman emerge from her car in the church parking lot. She looks down at a piece of paper, as if checking the address, and then back up at the church.
    The woman has on a business suit and heels, and her hair is pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck. She has a pretty, exotic look, and curves that I would kill for.
    Yvonne has worked herself into a prayer frenzy by the time she hollers out, “In Jesus’s name!”
    â€œAmen,” I quickly say, trying to match, but not quite capturing, her intensity.
    â€œWho is she?” Yvonne asks as she notices the woman, too. She looks as if she’s trying to decide whether or not to go in.
    I open the car door and get out. “You know, if God brought you this far, you should probably go on in.”
    The woman laughs. “You’re right. I—I just . . . well . . . I’m not a b-beggar.”
    She breaks down in tears, and her body shakes with violent sobs. I take a few more steps until I’m close enough to embrace her. Yvonne jumps out of the car and joins me. She rubs the woman’s back until she calms down.
    Then the woman looks embarrassed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”
    â€œWe all cry sometimes,” Yvonne says. “Today it was your turn. Tomorrow it might be mine. How can we help you? What is your name, honey?”
    I hand the woman a tissue from my purse, which she uses to blow her nose and dab her eyes. “My name is Eva Jacobs. I lost my job, and I’ve spent just about all my savings. I was told that there is a food pantry here. Is that true?”
    I stare at Eva in wonder. She doesn’t look like someone who needs to use our pantry. Her makeup is carefully applied, especially her eye makeup, which showcases her striking doe-like eyes. Eva could’ve been one of my coworkers at Ellis Financial or maybe even a pastor’s wife. Usually the women who come here for help look more like how Carmisha did the first time she walked through the church doors, high on some kind of drug and dragging her toddler son in tow, begging for food and money.
    Yvonne takes Eva’s hand and pulls her toward the church. Eva looks so shocked at Yvonne’s aggressive manner that I almost let out a chuckle as I follow them.
    â€œDo you have somewhere to stay?” Yvonne asks.
    â€œFor now I do,” Eva says.
    â€œThat’s good. Let’s get your kitchen stocked, then.”
    When we walk back into the church, Yvonne leads Eva to the food pantry. Carmisha’s eyes lock with mine, and Shaquan, who is