Marcus checked his phone again. Tuesday, 7:15 AM. Mrs. Nguyen would be standing at the corner of 35th and McDowell in exactly three minutes. She was never late, never early. In the two years since he'd started driving, she'd become as reliable as the sunrise over South Mountain.
He pulled up to the curb and watched her make her way to the car. Small steps. Her black purse clutched against her side. The same purse every Tuesday and Thursday. She opened the back door herself—she always insisted on that—and settled into the seat directly behind him.
"Good morning, Mrs. Nguyen."
"Morning." Her voice barely above a whisper. Then, as always: "Saint Joseph's, please. Main entrance."
Marcus nodded and pulled into traffic. The morning was already hot, August in Phoenix starting its daily punishment early. The air conditioning struggled against it. In the rearview mirror, he could see Mrs. Nguyen had closed her eyes. Her hands rested on her purse, the knuckles swollen with arthritis.
They drove in silence. That was their arrangement, unspoken but understood. She didn't want conversation. He didn't offer it. The radio stayed off. Just the hum of tires on asphalt, the occasional rattle when they hit a pothole the city hadn't fixed yet.
At the hospital, Marcus pulled into the drop-off zone. Mrs. Nguyen was already counting bills from a small envelope she kept in her purse. Three fives, two ones. Exact change for the $17 ride. She'd calculated it once, two years ago, and had paid the same amount ever since, regardless of surge pricing or route changes.
"Thank you," she said, handing him the bills.
"Thursday?" he asked.
"Thursday, yes. Same time."
She climbed out carefully, took a moment to steady herself, then walked toward the automatic doors. Marcus watched her go, then realized he'd been watching too long. Three cars had lined up behind him. He pulled away.
The rest of his shift blurred together. Airport runs. Downtown businesspeople. ASU students still drunk from the night before. By noon, the heat had driven everyone indoors, and Marcus called it a day.
His apartment was dark, blinds drawn against the sun. He microwaved leftover Chinese food, ate standing at the counter, then lay on the couch. The ceiling fan wobbled slightly, had since he'd moved in. The landlord said he'd fix it. That was eight months ago.
His phone buzzed. Rosa.
"Emma wants to know if you're coming to her recital."
Marcus stared at the text. His daughter's piano recital. He'd forgotten. Again.
"When?"
"Sunday. 3 PM. Desert Palm Elementary."
"I'll be there."
Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then: "She'd really like that."
Marcus set the phone aside. Closed his eyes. The fan continued its uneven rotation above him.
Thursday came. Marcus arrived at 35th and McDowell at 7:18. The corner was empty. He waited. Checked his phone. 7:20. 7:25. He called the number she'd given him two years ago. Straight to voicemail, her message in Vietnamese, then halting English: "Please leave message. I call back."
He drove to Saint Joseph's, thinking maybe she'd taken another ride, gotten the days confused. But the dialysis center receptionist shook her head. Mrs. Nguyen had missed her appointment. No call. That wasn't like her.
Marcus sat in his car in the hospital parking lot. The morning heat was building. He should start driving, pick up other fares. Money wouldn't make itself. But something felt wrong. He opened his glove compartment to get his registration for an airport run later, and there it was—Mrs. Nguyen's wallet. Small, brown leather, worn soft. She must have dropped it Tuesday.
He opened it. A Medicare card. A faded photo of a young man in military uniform—South Vietnamese, from the look of it. Seventeen dollars in bills. And a business card for the dialysis center with Tuesday/Thursday appointments written in pencil. On the back, an address: 2847 East Oak Street, Apartment 12.
Marcus knew he should just drop it at the hospital desk. Let them handle it. But he was already driving, already turning onto Oak Street. The apartment complex was one of those two-story stucco buildings from the seventies, painted beige to hide the dirt. A pool that hadn't seen water in years. Oleander bushes dying in the heat.
Apartment 12 was on the ground floor. Marcus knocked. No answer. Knocked again, harder.
"Mrs. Nguyen? It's Marcus. Your driver?"
A sound from inside. Faint. Marcus tried the door handle. Locked. But the window next to it was open a crack, screen loose. He shouldn't. This wasn't his business. But he was already pulling the screen free, pushing the window up, climbing through.
The apartment was small, neat. A crucifix on one wall. Photos everywhere—the same young man from the wallet, at different ages. A wedding photo, Mrs. Nguyen young and smiling beside him. But no recent photos. No grandchildren. No daughter at the hospital.
"Mrs. Nguyen?"
He found her in the bedroom, on the floor beside the bed. Conscious but unable to get up. Her face gray, breathing shallow.
"I'm calling 911."
She grabbed his wrist with surprising strength. "No. No hospital."
"You need help."
"No money. No more hospital."
Marcus made the call anyway. While they waited for the ambulance, he sat on the floor beside her. She'd closed her eyes, but he could see tears leaking from the corners.
"My daughter," she whispered. "She come soon. From hospital."
Marcus said nothing. There was no daughter. He understood that now. Understood the careful fiction she'd built, the story she told herself and others. He understood because he'd built his own. That he was just temporarily driving Uber. That he'd get back on his feet soon. That he was fine being alone.
The paramedics arrived. Mrs. Nguyen was too weak to protest. Marcus rode in the ambulance with her, holding her purse while they started an IV. At the hospital, the same receptionist from dialysis recognized them both.
"Is she your mother?" she asked.
Marcus started to say no, then looked at Mrs. Nguyen on the gurney, small and frightened, holding onto her purse like it could anchor her to the world.
"She's family," he said.
They admitted her. Kidney failure, infection, dehydration. Marcus sat in the chair beside her bed while they ran tests, started treatments. She slept mostly, but when she woke, she seemed unsurprised to find him there.
"Your daughter," she said on the second day. "You talk about her. In car sometimes."
Marcus didn't remember talking about Emma, but maybe he had. Early on, before they'd settled into silence.
"She has a recital Sunday."
"You go."
"Someone should be here."
Mrs. Nguyen turned her head away. "Forty years in America. My husband die fifteen years. My son..." She touched the photo Marcus had retrieved from her apartment, the young soldier. "He die before we leave Vietnam. I tell people about daughter, about grandchildren. Easier than pity."
Marcus understood. It was easier to lie than to explain how you'd ended up alone. Easier to maintain the fiction than face the questions, the concern, the attempts to help that only emphasized how far you'd fallen.
"I'll stay until you're discharged," he said.
"You lose money. No driving."
"It's fine."
It wasn't fine. His rent was due. Child support. But he stayed anyway. Rosa brought Emma by on Saturday.
"This is Mrs. Nguyen," Marcus told his daughter. "She's... a friend."
Emma, ten years old and fearless, immediately took Mrs. Nguyen's hand. "Are you coming to my recital tomorrow?"
Mrs. Nguyen looked at Marcus, then at Emma. "If okay. If your father say okay."
Sunday afternoon, Marcus helped Mrs. Nguyen into his car. Not the Uber, but his actual car, the Honda he rarely drove. They arrived at Desert Palm Elementary early, got seats in the third row. Rosa waved from across the auditorium, surprised but trying not to show it.
Emma played "Für Elise," stumbled once, recovered. Marcus watched his daughter's concentration, the way she bit her lower lip just like her mother. Beside him, Mrs. Nguyen clapped with everyone else, her thin hands making barely any sound.
After, Emma ran over, flushed with excitement and relief.
"Did you like it?"
"Beautiful," Mrs. Nguyen said. "You practice very hard."
"Every day. Dad, can Mrs. Nguyen come to dinner with us?"
Marcus looked at Rosa, who was walking over with her new husband. There should have been awkwardness, complication. But Rosa just smiled.
"Of course. There's a Vietnamese place on Seventh Street. Would that be okay?"
Mrs. Nguyen nodded. "Okay, yes."
At dinner, Emma chattered about school, about piano, about her friends. Mrs. Nguyen listened, occasionally asked questions in her careful English. Rosa's husband, Tom, turned out to have served in the Navy, had been to Da Nang. He and Mrs. Nguyen found common ground in places half a world away.
Marcus mostly stayed quiet, but it was a different kind of quiet than he was used to. Not the silence of isolation but of presence, of being part of something without needing to explain himself.
When he drove Mrs. Nguyen home, she insisted on paying for the ride.
"No," Marcus said. "We're not doing that anymore."
"I pay. Always pay my way."
"Then cook me dinner sometime. Vietnamese food. Real Vietnamese food."
She considered this. "Tuesday. After dialysis. You drive me home, I cook."
"It's a deal."
He helped her to her door, made sure she was steady before leaving. As he walked back to his car, his phone buzzed. An Uber request. Airport run, good money. He looked at it for a moment, then declined. He had Emma's recital video to watch. Rosa had sent it to him. He wanted to see it again, to see his daughter's face when she recovered from her mistake and kept playing.
Tuesday, Marcus picked up Mrs. Nguyen at 7:18. She had exact change ready, but he waved it away.
"After dinner," he said. "We'll settle up after dinner."
She put the money back in her envelope, slowly, deliberately. They drove to Saint Joseph's in their usual silence, but it felt different now. Less like absence, more like companionship. Like two people who didn't need words to understand each other.
At the hospital, instead of dropping her at the main entrance, Marcus parked.
"I'll wait," he said. "Drive you home after."
"Three hours. You lose money."
"I brought a book."
He hadn't brought a book, but there was a coffee shop across the street. He could sit there, watch the traffic, answer emails from Rosa about Emma's school schedule. Small things. But they were his things, his life slowly reassembling itself.
When Mrs. Nguyen emerged from dialysis, she was tired but smiling. He helped her into the car, and they drove to her apartment. She'd already started prep work that morning—vegetables cut, rice soaking. She moved slowly but surely around her small kitchen while Marcus sat at the table, looking at the photos.
"Tell me about him," Marcus said, pointing to the young soldier.
Mrs. Nguyen paused, then began. Her son, Duc. Nineteen when he died. Two months before they were supposed to leave for America. She'd never talked about him to anyone here. Forty years of silence.
They ate spring rolls and pho, the broth rich and complex, nothing like the restaurant versions Marcus knew. Mrs. Nguyen told stories about Saigon before the war, about meeting her husband, about coming to America with nothing but hope and grief. Marcus told her about meeting Rosa in college, about Emma's birth, about losing his job and the slow unraveling that followed.
"You good father," Mrs. Nguyen said. "I see. Emma know you love her."
"I haven't been. Not for a while."
"You here now. That what matter."
When it was time to go, Mrs. Nguyen handed him an envelope. Inside was thirty-four dollars—payment for two rides.
"This is too much," Marcus said.
"Exact change," she said firmly. "Always exact change."
He understood. This was how she maintained her dignity, her independence. He took the money.
"Thursday?" he asked.
"Thursday. Same time."
Marcus drove home through streets he'd driven a thousand times, but they looked different now. Not better necessarily, but clearer. The dusty palms, the strip malls, the endless beige subdivisions—this was his city, his life. Not the one he'd planned, but the one he had.
His phone rang. Rosa.
"Emma wants to know if you can pick her up from school tomorrow. Tom and I both have to work late."
"What time?"
"Three-fifteen."
"I'll be there."
"Marcus?" Rosa's voice was careful. "It was nice seeing you today. You seem... better."
"I'm working on it."
"Good. Emma needs you. She needs her father."
After they hung up, Marcus sat in his parked car outside his apartment building. The sun was setting, painting the mountains purple and gold. Tomorrow he'd pick up his daughter. Thursday he'd drive Mrs. Nguyen. In between, he'd work, earn money, inch his way back toward something resembling a life.
His phone showed seventeen ride requests waiting. He opened the app, went online. The first request was from Sky Harbor Airport. He accepted it, put the car in drive.
The city lights were coming on, Phoenix transforming itself for the night. Marcus drove toward the airport, thinking about exact change, about what we owe each other, about the small kindnesses that keep us moving forward. The radio was off. He drove in silence, but it was a full silence now, occupied by possibility.
At the airport, his passenger was a businessman, anxious about a delayed flight, needing to get downtown for a meeting that was probably already over. Marcus listened to his complaints, made the right sounds of sympathy. The man tipped through the app, got out without saying goodbye.
Marcus sat in the drop-off zone for a moment, watching travelers hurry past with their rolling bags, their purposes clear and urgent. His phone showed more ride requests. He could drive all night, lose himself in the routine of pickup and drop-off, the fiction that motion was the same as progress.
Instead, he went offline. Drove home. Called Emma to say goodnight.
"Dad?" she said, sleepy but happy to hear from him. "Mrs. Nguyen is nice. Can we visit her again?"
"Sure, baby. We can visit her."
"Is she lonely?"
Marcus thought about it. "Sometimes. Everyone gets lonely sometimes."
"But not when they have friends."
"No," Marcus agreed. "Not when they have friends."
After Emma hung up, Marcus made a list. Things he needed to do. Pay rent. Schedule more time with Emma. Fix the wobbling fan or at least ask about it again. Small things, but a start.
Thursday came. Mrs. Nguyen was waiting at the corner, purse clutched, exact change ready. But when she got in the car, she didn't hand him the money immediately.
"I think," she said carefully, "maybe we change schedule."
Marcus felt a flutter of panic. Was she going to find another driver? Had he overstepped?
"My neighbor," she continued. "Mr. Ramirez. He also need rides to dialysis. Same days. Lives two blocks over. Maybe you pick up both? He pay separate, but save him money for two people."
"I can do that."
"Good. I tell him. Next week we start."
They drove in their familiar silence, but when they reached the hospital, Mrs. Nguyen didn't get out immediately.
"Your daughter," she said. "She play piano very beautiful. You should be proud."
"I am."
"Good. Pride is important. But showing up more important."
She handed him the exact change, climbed out carefully, and walked toward the entrance. Marcus watched her go, this small woman who'd lost everything and kept moving forward anyway, creating her own small economies of survival and connection.
His phone buzzed. Another text from Rosa. A photo of Emma at piano practice, concentrating hard, that same lip-biting expression. He saved it, set it as his wallpaper.
The day stretched ahead. Rides to accept or decline. Money to earn. But first, he had three hours while Mrs. Nguyen was in dialysis. He drove to the coffee shop across from the hospital, ordered a black coffee, and sat by the window.
He opened his notebook app and started writing. Nothing elaborate. Just a list. People to reconnect with. His brother in Tucson. His old friend David who'd tried to help after the divorce. Small steps back toward the world.
The coffee shop filled and emptied around him. Medical workers on break. Family members waiting for news. Everyone carrying their own stories of loss and recovery, their own careful fictions and difficult truths.
When it was time, Marcus walked back to the hospital. Mrs. Nguyen was already outside, sitting on the bench where she always waited. No daughter coming to pick her up. No grandchildren to fuss over her. Just her, alone, maintaining her dignity in exact change and careful lies.
"Ready?" he asked.
She nodded, took his offered arm, and let him help her to the car. They drove back to her apartment in comfortable silence. At her door, she turned to him.
"Next week, Mr. Ramirez. I introduce you. He talk too much, but good man."
"Sounds good."
"And Marcus?" She rarely used his name. "Thank you. For last week. For hospital."
"It's what friends do."
She smiled, a small but genuine expression that transformed her face. "Yes. Friends."
Marcus drove away thinking about connections, about the people we choose and the ones who choose us. His phone showed five ride requests waiting. He accepted one heading toward Emma's school. He could pick her up after, surprise her. Take her for ice cream. Listen to her talk about her day.
The Phoenix afternoon shimmered with heat, the city sprawling endlessly in all directions. But Marcus knew where he was going now. Not just the next fare, the next payment, but something further out. Something worth driving toward.
His phone rang. An unknown number. He almost didn't answer, then did.
"Mr. Marcus?" A heavily accented voice. "This is Ernesto Ramirez. Mrs. Nguyen say you give rides to dialysis?"
"That's right."
"How much for two people, three times a week?"
Marcus did the math. It wasn't much, but it was steady. Reliable. "We can work something out. Mrs. Nguyen has my number. Have her set it up."
"Okay, okay. Thank you. Is hard, you know? Getting places when you're old, when you're sick."
"I know," Marcus said. And he did know. The isolation that came with struggle, the way the world narrowed when you couldn't navigate it alone.
He picked up his fare, a nurse heading home from a twelve-hour shift. She fell asleep almost immediately, trusting him to get her home safely. The responsibility of it—small but real—felt good.
At Emma's school, he parked and waited. Parents gathered in clusters, comparing notes about homework and sports and birthday parties. Marcus stood apart but not uncomfortably so. He had his place in this ecosystem now, tenuous but growing stronger.
Emma emerged in a cluster of girls, all talking at once. When she saw him, her face lit up.
"Dad! I thought Mom was picking me up."
"Surprise inspection. Making sure you're practicing piano."
She rolled her eyes but hugged him anyway. In the car, she chattered about school, about friends, about a boy who'd been teasing her. Marcus listened, offered advice when asked, stayed quiet when that seemed better.
"Can we get ice cream?" Emma asked.
"Sure. But then homework."
"Can we visit Mrs. Nguyen again sometime?"
"She's cooking dinner for us next Tuesday."
"Really? Cool. Is she like your girlfriend?"
Marcus laughed, surprised. "No, baby. She's a friend. Just a friend."
"Good. Because she's really old."
They got ice cream, sat outside despite the heat, and Emma told him about her next recital piece—something harder, more ambitious. She was growing up, Marcus realized. While he'd been lost in his own collapse, she'd kept growing, kept moving forward.
"I'm sorry," he said suddenly. "For not being around more. For missing things."
Emma looked at him seriously, ice cream dripping down her cone. "It's okay, Dad. Mom says you're doing your best."
"I'm trying to do better."
"Good," she said, and returned to her ice cream as if they'd settled something important.
Marcus drove her to Rosa's house—he still thought of it that way, even though she lived there with Tom now. Rosa came out to the car.
"Thanks for getting her. Everything okay?"
"Yeah. We're good."
Rosa studied him. "You do seem better. More... present."
"I'm working on it."
"Good. Emma needs that. Needs you."
As he drove away, Marcus thought about presence, about showing up, about the small acts of connection that built a life. His phone showed ride requests piling up—airport runs, bar pickups, late-night emergency rides. The city needing to move, and him one small part of that vast circulation.
He accepted a ride going back toward Mrs. Nguyen's neighborhood. He had time before the evening rush. Maybe he'd stop by, check on her. Make sure she had what she needed for Tuesday's dinner.
The passenger was a young woman, maybe twenty-five, with a surgical boot on her foot. She struggled with crutches, and Marcus got out to help her.
"Thanks," she said. "Broke it playing soccer. Stupid move."
"Happens," Marcus said.
She talked the whole ride about her team, her job, her boyfriend who was being weird about the injury. Marcus listened with half his attention, the other half planning the rest of his day. Pick up Mr. Ramirez's information from Mrs. Nguyen. Get his car washed—if he was going to be driving regular clients, it should be clean. Small improvements.
After dropping off the injured soccer player, Marcus drove to Mrs. Nguyen's complex. Her window was repaired, he noticed. He'd called the landlord about it, pretended to be her son. Whatever worked.
He knocked. She answered quickly, as if she'd been waiting by the door.
"Marcus? Is Thursday. Why you here?"
"Just checking in. Making sure you have everything for Tuesday."
She looked at him suspiciously. "I cook for forty years. I know what I need."
"Right. Sorry. I also wanted to get Mr. Ramirez's address."
She softened. "Come in. I write it down."
Her apartment smelled like star anise and ginger. She was making something, soup maybe. She wrote out Mr. Ramirez's information in careful letters, then handed Marcus the paper.
"He talk about his wife. She die last year. He very sad but pretend not."
"Sounds familiar."
"Yes. Many people pretending."
"But not us," Marcus said. "Not anymore."
She smiled that small smile again. "No. Not anymore."
Marcus left her to her cooking and drove toward the evening rush. The city was coming alive with commuter traffic, everyone hurrying home or to second jobs or to wherever the evening took them. He accepted rides strategically now, building a route that made sense, maximizing efficiency without sacrificing the human element.
A businessman to the airport, worried about missing his flight. A couple heading to dinner, nervous and excited, maybe a first date. A medical student leaving the hospital after a thirty-six hour shift, barely coherent. Each passenger a story, a life intersecting briefly with his.
By ten, Marcus was tired but not exhausted. He'd made decent money, enough to cover a chunk of rent. He drove home thinking about Tuesday's dinner, about Emma's next recital, about Mr. Ramirez who talked too much and missed his wife.
His apartment felt less empty somehow. Same wobbling fan, same minimal furniture, but the space felt more inhabited. He heated up leftover Vietnamese food from Mrs. Nguyen, ate it slowly, tasting the complexity she'd built into every dish.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
"Mr. Marcus? This is Ernesto Ramirez. Mrs. Nguyen give me your number. Thank you for helping with rides. Is hard when you get old. People forget you still need things."
Marcus typed back: "Happy to help. See you Tuesday."
"God bless. You good man."
Marcus set his phone aside. Good man. He didn't feel like a good man, just someone trying to find his way back. But maybe that was enough. Maybe showing up, being present, accepting the exact change—maybe that was its own form of goodness.
He lay on his couch, watching the fan wobble. Tomorrow he'd drive. Pick up strangers, deliver them safely, collect his fare. But Tuesday he'd pick up Mrs. Nguyen and Mr. Ramirez, drive them to dialysis, wait, drive them home. Wednesday he'd get Emma from school. Thursday, the routine would repeat.
It wasn't the life he'd planned. But it was a life, built from small kindnesses and exact change, from showing up when you said you would, from admitting your loneliness and accepting help. It was enough. More than enough.
Outside, Phoenix hummed with its nighttime energy. Marcus closed his eyes and let the city's rhythm wash over him. Somewhere, Mrs. Nguyen was preparing tomorrow's meals. Emma was practicing piano. Mr. Ramirez was missing his wife. Rosa and Tom were planning their week. Everyone moving through their own struggles and small victories.
Marcus's phone showed twelve ride requests. He turned it off. Tomorrow he'd drive. Tonight, he'd rest. The exact change would be waiting, the careful transactions that kept them all moving forward, one ride at a time.