Silently, “Breaking News” plasters the muted 1998 monitor as Martha opens up a vacant cabinet. She studies the only mug on the shelf that somehow made it through six moves with the Coopers. It’s unbreakable bond and determination made her feel connected to the piece of ceramic.

She grabs the tepid pot of Maxwell house and fills her cup. The kitchen smells of burnt coffee and the checkered linoleum was lifting, but at least the hot plate worked at this one. That was already an improvement to their last subsidized housing in South Shore where she and John lived.

Martha shuttered at his name. She runs her fingers through her hair to feel the scar her husband left behind.

“Maybe that’s why I only have one mug left.” Martha half heartedly smiled down at her Joe trying to avoid the shortness of her breath.

Turning to pull out the aged wooden chair, the last glass plummets to the floor while her eyes are glued to the screen.

Live video plays. In blood red were the words “Active Shooter at Elm High School.” Eddie’s school.

It felt like Martha just wrapped her sons PB&J in plastic before their argument over his plea to skip school due to unfinished homework. She insisted that there was time on the bus as she zipped his backpack and sent him to the sidewalk. Guilt as a mom overwhelmed her but the diner had her working the graveyard shift and he broke his promise. He had to deal with the consequences.

Regretting his request to miss a Monday, she needed to hear that her son was safe. Earlier in the summer Eddie begged for a cell phone, but Martha cleverly enforced a spontaneous rule to make him wait until he was 15. That could buy her seven months to save towards Walmarts cheapest option.

She desperately searched for her chevys keys. It was only a one bedroom apartment, but the adrenaline clogged her memory of where she tossed them last.

She threw her purse to the stained carpet in the living room and dropped to her knees. Tears flooded her cheeks in a constant river but that didn’t hurt her hunt.

Sweat starts to seep through her Goodwill Tea Green button up as she dug through her bag. Nothing. Martha’s bloodshot brown eyes frantically scanned the 600 square foot apartment and stops at the sight of the striped sofa.

She plunged her hands between the cushions, while her fingers spread hopeful to feel the rigid side of a key. Her pinky touches something cold. Martha flips the dusty pillow and gapes at the shell of her couch. An empty belt holster of a gun she never knew took residence in her home.