Nice. The word doesn't sit well. The last thing I am is nice. "How soon do you need the money?" I ask instead of telling her the truth.

Her blue eyes are tinged red from crying and a slight hitch enters her voice when she says, "One month."

My brain puzzles through the math. Even if all her clients are as generous as I am, she'll be lucky to make that in a month. "I'm working two jobs. I can do it," she says at the look on my face.

Well, hell. She should not have ...