They moved into a small apartment, thinking they could rebuild.
But during Silas’s illness, his employer eliminated his position. They were careful about the wording. Not fired. Just restructured. And at seventy years old, Silas could not find new work.
Adeline’s library hours were cut to almost nothing as the town budget tightened. The apartment rent turned out to be more than they could keep up with. They fell behind, then further behind.
Last month, they were evicted.
For the past three weeks, they had been sleeping in their car, a 1998 Honda Accord with two hundred thirty thousand miles on it, the only possession they had left besides the clothes they wore and a few boxes of belongings stacked in the trunk.
“I see,” the clerk said, typing into her computer.
“And current assets?”
Adeline pulled out her wallet and opened it, showing the bills inside.
“Three ones and some change. Three dollars and seventeen cents.”
The clerk’s expression showed pity now, which somehow hurt worse than contempt would have.
“All right. I can process an application for emergency food assistance, and I can put you on the waiting list for subsidized housing. But I need to tell you honestly, that waiting list is usually six to eight months long.”
“We don’t have six to eight months,” Silas said quietly. “We don’t even have six to eight days. It’s November. Vermont winter in a car…”
He did not finish. He did not have to.
The clerk shifted uncomfortably.
“There’s a shelter on—”
“We tried,” Adeline interrupted gently. “They’re full. They told us to come back in a week and see if space opens up.”
A week in the Honda, while the nighttime temperature dropped below freezing and the wind came off the river sharp as broken glass. Adeline had already developed a cough that worried Silas. They were too old for this. Their bodies could not handle it.
The clerk printed out some forms and pushed them toward the window.
“These are for the food assistance program. Take them to the community center on Fifth Street. They can give you up to three days’ worth of groceries. And here’s a list of resources. Churches that sometimes help with emergency situations. Organizations that assist seniors.”
Adeline took the papers with a quiet thank-you, and she and Silas left the office.
Outside, the November air was cold and gray. Low clouds pressed over the mountains, and the bare branches of the town’s old maples rattled in the wind. Silas put his arm around Adeline’s shoulders as they walked slowly toward their car.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.
“I know,” Adeline replied, squeezing his hand. “We always do.”
But privately, she was not sure anymore.
They were sixty-eight and seventy years old, homeless, nearly penniless, and running out of options. Silas’s health was good now, thank God, but they both knew a Vermont winter spent sleeping upright in a car would undo that quickly.
They reached the Honda and climbed inside. The car smelled faintly of fast food wrappers, old coffee, and the sour air of too many nights spent breathing the same cold interior. Adeline pulled the three dollars from her wallet and looked at it.
“We should get gas,” Silas said. “We’re almost on empty.”
“We should eat,” Adeline answered.
She counted the money again. They sat in silence, staring at the impossible arithmetic of poverty. Three dollars could buy gas or food, but not both, and they needed both.
Silas started the car. It coughed to life reluctantly.
“Let’s drive around a little,” he said. “Maybe we’ll see something.”
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