“You don’t have to do this,” Gigi said.
“I know.”
When we pulled up at her house, I understood why she’d been so desperate. It wasn’t really a house. More like a shack with peeling paint, cracked windows, and a roof that looked ready to give in at the next strong wind.
Inside was worse. One room. A single bed in the corner where a man lay under a thin blanket, coughing weakly.
“George,” Gigi said, hurrying to his side. “I’m home, dear. I brought dinner.”
George’s face lit up when he saw the bag.
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