Six Hours: Episode 3

In Episode 3 of 6 Hours, Trina takes a deeper look at the small house behind her bakery, a decision that could reshape how she lives and works within the six hours she’s given each day. But as she weighs the possibilities, new clues about the recent break-in at the bakery begin to surface. What first seemed like a random crime reveals a surprising connection no one expected. As the truth unfolds, Trina must decide whether moving closer will bring the stability she needs… or change more than she ever intended.

Transcript

0:07

The morning after the house showing Trina wakes before her alarm Caregivers often do. The body learns to rise before the day demands it. Welcome back to Take Care of Time, the tales and the exhales of caregivers. I'm your host Beverly Nance. The house is quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner. Pushing back against the Florida heat already gathering. Outside through the window, she can see the sky. Just beginning to brighten a thin band of pale orange stretching above the rooftops. For a moment, she lies still, and then the math begins Mortgage property tax. Insurance, the deductible from the bank, burglary, payroll for the bakery program, overage fees, six hours. Everything eventually comes back to six hours. This is the unit her life runs on now. Not days, not weeks. Six hours of structured time when Sam Jr. Is somewhere safe and supervised. Six hours where the rest of the world expects her to live an entire life. Work, errands, phone calls, breathing room decision making six hours. Yesterday when she stood on the back porch of that small White House and looked across the fence towards Sweet Rise Bakery, something shifted in her thinking. The distance between her worlds suddenly locked. Negotiable. For years, she had lived with a quiet, invisible gap between caregiving and survival between mother and business owner, between the person who calmed her son through sensory overload and the person who iced cakes and balance invoices Most days. The commute between those two identities was only 15 minutes, but 15 minutes twice a day, five days a week. That's two and a half hours of time loss every week, 10 hours a month, 120 hours a year, the equivalent of 26 hour program days. Caregivers become accidental mathematicians. They calculate everything, minutes, energy, attention, margins. The house behind the bakery wasn't beautiful. It wasn't large. It wasn't. Even particularly charming, but it erased distance. The erasing distance meant something larger than convenience. It meant control. At 7:15 AM Sam Jr. Enters the kitchen. He moves with a steady rhythm. Trina recognizes immediately, not agitated, not sluggish, just present. Morning, Sammy, she says gently, he does not answer, but he taps a counter twice, then opens the refrigerator. Routine. Routine is his own language while he eats breakfast. Trina glances At the printed property sheet Marlene had given her the day before. Numbers, again, always numbers. She circles the monthly estimate. With a pen, it would be tight, but tight is not the same as impossible. And sometimes caregivers learn. The difference between those two girls is simply creativity. By eight 30, they're in the car. The drive to the day program is familiar. Same route, same traffic lights, same quiet anticipation of the six hour window opening. When she pulls into the parking lot, Teri is already visible through the front glass doors. Receptionists in places like this develop a sixth sense for arriving caregivers. They can read posture before someone even speaks. When Trina walks inside, Teri smiles how the house showing go. She asked Trina exhales slowly. It makes sense. She says That's usually. The most dangerous kind. Teri replies lightly. They both laugh. But there's Truth under the joke. Sometimes the most disruptive decisions in a caregiver's life are the ones that make the most logical sense. As Trina signs a daily sheet. She hesitates Teri, she says quietly. Do you ever think about what would happen if the system changes? Teri tilts her head in. In what way? Hours, Trina says, funding programs. Tina leans back in her chair all the time. Adult day programs across the country operate on a structure that often looks similar, roughly six hours of care, usually between mid-morning and mid-afternoon. There are practical reasons for this. Staffing costs, transportation, logistics, insurance coverage but for caregivers, six hours is really enough to build an entire life around. It's simply what exists. So caregivers adapt, they redesign, they compress, they move closer, or sometimes they gamble. Trina drops. Sam Jr. Off and drives straight to the bakery. The alley is quiet. When she arrives, too quiet, maybe she steps out of the car and glances instinctively toward the security camera mounted above the back door. Clean lens, clear view. No paint, no shadows. Still, she opens the security app on her phone before unlocking the door. She scrolls back to the footage from the night of the burglary. She has watched this a dozen times already, but something about the house yesterday, something about standing on that porch makes her look again. The timestamp reads 2:13 AM The hooded figure enters the frame slow, measured, not rushed, and then just before the spray of the white paint hits the lens, the figure turns slightly towards the alley. Toward the direction of the White House. It's subtle, but it's there. Trina pauses the video. Rewinds watches. Again, the person doesn't look toward the bakery entrance. They look outward as if checking something behind them or someone. She feels a small tightening in her chest. The house might shorten the distance between her worlds, but distance sometimes protects things too. And suddenly the decision about the property no longer feels just like a financial equation It feels like something else entirely. Something closer to risk, something closer to exposure outside the alley remains quiet, but for the first time since the burglary, Trina wonders if someone else might be watching that alley too. By mid-morning, the bakery has settled into its usual rhythm. The expresso machine hisses in short bursts a tray of guava pastries cools near the window. Juan moves easily between the ovens and the front counter greeting customers with the calm familiarity that comes from repetition. Trina stands in the office doorway holding her phone. The security footage is still paused at 2:13 AM. The hooded figure is halfway through the frame, frozen, still ambiguous, for three weeks. She has watched the video trying to see something obvious. Now she realizes the truth about security footage. It rarely gives answers. It just creates more questions, everything. Okay, ask Juan from the front. Trina looks up. Yeah, she says Just thinking,, thinking has become a second job lately. Thinking about Sam Junior's future, thinking about whether six hours of program time can ever truly support a full life. And now thinking about the house, the back door chime rings as a customer leaves, Juan wipes his hands on a towel and walks toward the office. You still thinking about that house? He asks casually. Trina nods maybe. Juan glances toward the alley, through the back window, you'd be able to see this place from your living room. He says, that's the idea. He nods Slowly. My aunt moved closer to her shop when my uncle got sick. He says, said it saved her. Saved her. The phrase lingers. Sometimes proximity feels like freedom. Sometimes it feels like something is happening in one place. Trina pockets her phone. I might call Marlena again. She says, Juan Miles, tell her I said it's a great location. Trina laughs quietly noted. The phone rings twice before Marlena answers. Hi, Trina, she says immediately. Realtors learn voices quickly. I've been thinking about the house. Trina says there is a pause on the line. No hesitation. Just attention. That's usually a good sign. Marlena replies. I want to look at it again. Trina continues,. Just to be sure. Of course. Marlena says, are you free doing program hours again tomorrow? Six hours. Always. Six hours, yes. Trina says, then let's walk through it slowly this time. Marlene suggests Sometimes houses reveal themselves differently the second time. The next day arrives with the same quiet urgency. Drop off. Nine o'clock, six hours begin. Trina walks toward the house again this time, noticing things she didn't register before. The fence line between the bakery, the angle of the alley, the distance between the camera and the back gate details. Caregivers become detail collectors inside the house. Marlena is already waiting. She holds two coffees, one Cuban, one regular. Trina takes the coffee without asking how Marlena knew. Second tours are different. Marlena says as they step inside, the first one is emotion. The second one is logic. They move slowly through the rooms. Trina stands in the kitchen longer. This time, the counter is narrow, but functional. The window faces the street. From here, she can see customers coming and going from the bank, bakery's front door. If she lean just slightly to the left, your mapping routines, Marlene says gently Trina nods that obvious. Yes, Marlena replies. Caregivers always do. They walk toward the back porch again. The alley looks different from this angle. Closer, more exposed. You ever have security issues at the bakery Marlina? Ask carefully. Three weeks ago. Marlene's expression shifts slightly break in. Trina nods cash drawer. Office marlina leans against the porch railing. Anyone caught? No camera? They sprayed it. That detail lands heavier than the others sprayed. Marlena asked. Paint Marina glances slightly toward the alley, then toward the bakery that takes intention. She says quietly. Trina feels the same tightening in her chest. She felt yesterday. I've been watching the footage. She says. Anything useful? Maybe Trina opens her phone, shows Marlena the pause frame, the hooded figure, the slight turn toward the alley marlina studies. It could be someone checking if anyone's coming, she says, or someone expecting someone. Trina replies. They stand in silence for a moment. Then Marlena straightens. You should know something about houses like this. She says, what's that? Proximity magnifies everything. Good and bad. Trina says exactly inside six hours, magnification matters. A shorter distance means more time, but it also means less separation between the parts of life that already strain against each other. Trina walks back into the living room. She turned slowly. Imagining furniture, placements, routines, quiet corners where Sam Junior could decompress after overstimulation. It would work. It would absolutely work, but something about the alley keeps pulling her attention back. Do you know the neighbors she asked? Marlene nods. Most of them it's a pretty quiet street. Anyone new recently? Not really. Marlene says Why Trina hesitates. It answers honestly because whoever broke into my bakery didn't move like it was random. Marle studies her face caregiver instincts. She asks gently, maybe caregivers spend years reading small behavioral shifts. Sometimes that skill spills into everything else. Sometimes it sees patterns where none exist, but sometimes it's right. Okay, outside the alley remains still a stray cat crosses the pavement. A delivery truck passes at the end of the street. Nothing dramatic, nothing suspicious, and yet something about the space feels watched. Meanwhile, across the block, someone else glances briefly toward the bakery and toward the small White House, but the moment passes unnoticed by the time Trina returns to the bakery. The clock reads 1218. Three hours of her six hour window are gone. Three hours remain. She sits in the office chair staring at the mortgage, estimate sheets, numbers. Again, always numbers. If she made an offer, if the inspection came back, clean if she could stretch the budget without breaking it, the distance between her life roles would collapse into a single block. But the burglary questions would remain unanswered and now unsettling. She presses play on the security footage again. The hooded figure moves across the frame, pauses turns slightly toward the alley, then disappears into the bakery. Trina leans closer to the screen. This time she notices something she missed before. The figure doesn't just glance behind them. They gesture. A small movement of the hand, like a signal someone might have been waiting outside the camera's view. Someone who knew the alley, someone who knew the bakery, someone who knew the routines. The thought settles into place slowly. The burglary might not have been one person, it might have been two, and that realization opens a door she had not considered before. If two people were involved. Then one of them might have been closer to her life than she realized. By early afternoon, the bakery had entered into its quiet stretch. The lunch rush has passed. The espresso machine rests between orders outside Miami, traffic hums steadily along the main road two blocks away, but inside Sweet Rise Bakery, the rhythm is slower. Trina sits at the office chair, the security footage, pause once again on the screen in front of her. The hood figure stands frozen in the frame. The small hand gesture she noticed earlier, lingers in her mind a signal someone might have been there. Someone outside the camera's view that thought rearranges the entire burglary in her mind. For three weeks, she had imagined a single person, a stranger, moving through the alley. Undercover of darkness. Someone desperate, someone random, but two people meant something different. Two people meant coordination. And coordination suggests familiarity. Juan knocks slightly on the office. Doorframe, you look like you're solving a crime. He says, Trina closes the security app. Just thinking again, she replies. Juan leans against the doorframe. You still watching that video? Yeah. Anything new? Trina hesitates. I think there might've been two people. Juan's eyebrows, lift two. She nods the person on the camera gestures like they're signaling someone behind them. Juan considers this quietly, well, the alley's pretty open. He says Someone could stand out of view. Exactly. They both glanced toward the back window. Instinctively the alley looks the same as always. Concrete, dumpster faded, fence lines. But once suspicion enters a place, it changes the atmosphere. Space feels different when you start wondering who else has stood in them Juan pushes off the doorframe, you know, he says thoughtfully that bar two doors down, had their storage room broken into last year. Trina looks up really. Yeah, Juan says, guy came through the back alley, took liquor. Police, never figured out who it was. He shrugs alley crimes happen. They do. Small businesses across the country deal with them constantly. Late night break-ins, cash drawers, emptied, windows smashed insurance claims filed and forgotten. But something about the paint on the camera, something about the gesture still doesn't feel random. Juan returns to the front counter. Trina sits quietly for another moment. Then she presses play again. The hooded figure moves across a frame. Pauses turns toward the alley. The hand lifts a small quick motion. Then the spray of white paint hits the lens. The screen dissolves into static. She pauses it again. Zooms in the image blurs slightly. Security cameras aren't built for detail, but the gesture is unmistakable. Someone was being told something. Come now. Wait. Clear. It could mean anything or nothing. Trina leans back in her chair. Caregivers learn something about uncertainty over time. Answers are rare. Patterns are more useful. And patterns often appear slowly At 2:40 PM the reminder alarm on her phone vibrates pick up time. Six hours ending. She locks the office and heads for her car. The drive to the day program is the same as always familiar, turns familiar lights, familiar anticipation of the shift back into full caregiving mode. When she walks through the doors, Teri looks up again. Hey, she says, how's the house decision coming? Trina excels. I'm still thinking. Teri smiles. That's responsible. They walk together down the hallway again toward the activity room. Can I ask you something Trina says Quietly. Sure. Do people ever watch this place? Trina stops walking. What do you mean? I mean routines. Trina says, drop off times. Pick up times. Who comes and goes. Teri considers the question carefully. We've never had problems. She asked slowly. But caregivers have routines. Anyone watching long enough could notice that that thought settles heavily. Routine is necessary. Routine is safe. Routine is also predictable. They reach the doorway where Sam Junior stands with other participants waiting calmly, he sees Trina and rocks slightly. Once a movement she recognizes as recognition. Hey, Sammy, she says he taps his chest twice steady. Steady is good. On the drive home, the sky darkens again. With the promise of another Florida storm, Sam Jr. Watches raindrops begin to collect on the window. Trina's mind returns to the house, to the alley, to the possibility of compressing her life into one small block of Miami real estate For the first time in year, she feels like a structural change might be possible, but structural change means exposure. And exposure means risk. Back at the bakery, the afternoon light has softened. Juan hands her a small envelope when she walks in. What's this she says, mail came early. He says, the envelope has no return address. Just the bakery's name written in bold letters. Trina opens it carefully. Inside is a single folded piece of paper. She unfolds it calmly. Two words, check the alley. No signature or explanation, just the message. Juan watches her face change. What is it he asks Trina hands him the note. He reads it. Okay. He says that's That's weird. Weird is one word for it. Another word might be a warning. Trina walks slowly toward the back door. Juan follows, the alley is dim now under gathering clouds, trash bins sit where they always sit. The fence behind the White House stands silent. Everything appears ordinary, but now the ordinary feels staged. Trina looks down near the base of the fence. There are two sets of footprints in the dust. One set. She recognizes hers from climbing on the ladder days earlier. The other set is larger and fresher. Someone has been standing here recently standing long enough to leave. Marks facing the bakery, watching Trina feels the familiar caregiver instinct. rise again. That quiet internal alarm that says something isn't quite right. She looks back toward the house, behind the fence, the small white House, and the one she's considering buying, the one that would place her entire life within a few yards of this alley. Possibility exposure, and now mystery. Somewhere in Miami, someone knows more about that night than they've said, and sooner or later the truth is going to surface. The alley grows darker as the storm finally breaks rain begins softly at first, then lines of water tapping against the metal dumpster and the chain link fence. Within minutes, the sky opens fully washing the pavement clean and turning the dust into slick patches of mud. Trina and Juan stepped back inside the bakery as the rain intensifies. Neither of them speaks for a moment. The notes still rest on the counter. Check the alley. Two words. Nothing else. No signature, no explanation. Just a quiet instruction that somehow feels heavier than the burglary itself. Juan finally exhales. You think whoever did it left this? He asked. Trina shakes her head slowly. I don't know. And the truth is, uncertainty has become familiar. Territory caregiving teaches you to live with unanswered questions. You learn to move forward without complete information to make decisions while the future remains blurry. But something about the note feels different. It doesn't feel threatening. It feels corrective as though someone wanted her to notice something she had missed. The rain continues pounding outside for nearly 20 minutes The alley disappears behind a curtain of water. By the time the storm slows through a drizzle, the ground has been washed, nearly clean. The footprints are gone. Trina stands near the back door staring through the glass. Great. Juan Mutters again. Now, we'll never know, but sometimes answers arrive in ways no one expects. The following morning, Trina receives a phone call just after dropping Sam Junior off for the day program. The number is unfamiliar. She answers cautiously. Hello? There's a pause on the other end. then voice soft female. This is Marlena Trina. Straightened slightly. Hi, I need to ask you something. Marlena says her tone is different than from before. Careful, almost uneasy. Um, okay. Did you mention the burglary to anyone yesterday? Trina thinks for a moment. No, just you. There is another pause. My neighbor stopped by this morning. Marlena continues. She said she saw someone behind the bakery last night during the storm. Trina's chest tightens. Who? That's the strange part. Marlena says she described someone. I know Trina doesn't speak. Marlena. She says. Finally, I think you should come over. Marlena says Quietly by 10:10 AM trina is standing once again on the porch of the small White House. The rain has left the street shining under the late morning sun. Marlena stands beside her. Arms crossed slightly. There's someone I want you to meet, she says. The front door opens and the person who steps outside is the last person Trina expected. Teri, the receptionist from Sam Junior's Day program. For a moment, the three women simply look at one another. Terry Trina says, I just saw you at the day program. Teri's shoulder slumped slightly. She looks exhausted. I guess I should explain. She says quietly Trina feels the world tilt just slightly. You broke into my bakery. She shakes her head immediately. No, no, but I, but I know. Who did. They stand together in the small living room. Terry keeps her hands folded slightly on her lap. My nephew. He's been staying with me for a few weeks. Lost his job, fell behind on rent. Trina listens carefully. He knows I work at the program. He knows the routines. Caregivers have drop-offs, pickups, the realization begins forming slowly. He's been hanging around the neighborhood at night. Terry says, trying to figure out where small businesses keep cash and the alley Trina says quietly. Teri nods. He saw the bakery, watched it for a couple of nights, and the camera Trina says, he told me later he sprayed it because he didn't want to be recognized. Trina exhaled slowly. Then why the note she asked Teri looks down because he didn't realize something, but that the second person he thought was helping him. It was me, Trina blinks. I was outside the alley that night. Teri admits I followed him when I realized what he was planning. The pieces fall into place. The gesture on the video, the signal he thought I was telling him, it was clear. Teri says quietly, but I was trying to tell him to leave. She looks up and I realized you were about to buy that house. Trina feels a strange mix of emotions move through her relief, confusion. Something close to empathy. I left a note because I wanted you to see the footprints. Teri says to know someone had been watching the bakery to know before you made a decision. The room grows quiet. Marlena finally speaks. Your nephew is willing to come forward. Teri nods yes. And return what he took. That answer changes the atmosphere instantly because suddenly the burglary isn't a faceless threat. It's a messy human mistake. A young man trying to survive, a caregiver trying to prevent worse damage, and a business owner caught in the middle. Later that afternoon, Trina walks back to the bakery. The alley feels different now. Not safe, exactly, but understood understanding has power. When she reaches the back door, Juan looks up immediately. Well, he asks. Trina smiles faintly. We know who did it. Juan leans forward and is being handled. He nods, then gestures toward the alley. So what about the house? Trina steps outside. Again, she looks across the fence. Toward the small White House, six hours. That's still the number her life runs on. That hasn't changed, but something else has. She understands now that proximity doesn't just magnify risk. It magnifies awareness, community connection. People looking out for each other even when they make mistakes. Trina pulls out her phone dials Marlene's number when Marlena answers. She doesn't waste time. I'm ready. Trina says, for what to make an offer. Caregivers rarely get perfect solutions, but sometimes they get close enough to build something better. Six hours at a time. Next time on six hours. Trina moves closer to the bakery and begins designing her life around proximity, but compressing work, caregiving, and survival into a single block of Miami. Real estate introduces a new challenge because when your entire life exists within walking distance, there is nowhere left to hide from exhaustion and nowhere left to ignore what you truly need. Before we close today, I wanna mention two things. First I wanna take a moment to speak directly to the caregiver listing. If you've ever tried to build a life inside six hours, if you've ever measured your day by drop offs and pickups, if you've ever wondered whether there's even room left for yourself, somewhere in between, I see you. That's exactly why I created the Take Care time Respite Box. Every box is thoroughly curated with caregivers in mind. Small, intentional items designed to help you reset, breathe, reflect, and reconnect with yourself during the limited time you have. A journal to capture your thoughts, perhaps maybe a puzzle or an activity to quiet your mind, something calming for your body, and reminders woven throughout that you matter too. Because those six hours shouldn't disappear into survival mode. You deserve moments of restoration inside the time you've been given. You can learn more about the current take care time respite box by visiting take care time.com. Six hours is precious and you deserve something inside those hours that belongs just to you. Secondly, I invite you to share your story. I want to hear from you. Have you ever designed your life around the six hours you're given, maybe you've moved closer to work, maybe you've built a workplace inside your home. Maybe you had to rethink everything just to make those hours count, or maybe you're still waiting, hoping the system will give you more time, more help, and more space to breathe. If Trina's story resonates with you, I invite you to share your caregiving story with me. You can reach me at podcast@takecaretime.com. I love to hear from you. And with your permission, your experiences may be woven into future episodes because caregiver stories deserve to be heard. Not hidden. This series is about six hours, but more than that, it's about what we build inside of them. Please note that this episode features reenactments and dramatized details. While in most cases the exact verbatim dialogue may not be known, all dramatizations are grounded in thorough research and crafted to honor the stories shared to respect the privacy and confidentiality of the individuals involved names, and some identifying details have been changed. Until next week, take care.