Chances Are
Eighteen years later
Dione Williams sat in her small, but neat, afrocentric office, located on the basement level of the four-story brownstone she'd purchased five years earlier in the Clinton Hill section of Brooklyn. Laid out from end to end on the gray metal table she used for a desk—purchased at a discount city auction—were utility bills, invoices from vendors, taxes due and another pile of rejection letters for the three proposals she'd written for additional funding.
She rubbed a hand across her forehead, then began to massage her temples with the balls of her thumbs.
Chances Are was in trouble. Serious trouble, and according to her accountant if she didn't secure a solid influx of capital within the next four to six months, the ten teen mothers and their babies who'd come to live at the reconverted residence and who depended on her for their survival would be put out onto the street, and her staff would be out of jobs.
All around her, she felt the doors closing, and that old fear underscored by more than a decade of anger resurfaced like a swimmer gasping above the water for air. She looked up and out of the small basement window, catching a glimps ... read full excerpt from: Chances Are ebook
