Crumpled bills. Soft from use. Smelling faintly of damp air and desperation.
She counted them once. Twice. Three times.
On the fourth, she let out a hollow laugh — the kind people make when they secretly hope money might multiply out of pity.
It didn’t.
The eviction notice taped to her door gave her five days. Five days to come up with $900 in rent… plus $250 in late fees.
Outside, a brutal winter storm was tearing through New York City. Thunder shook the windows. Rain lashed the brick walls like fists. The ceiling light flickered once… twice…
Her electricity bill was overdue too.
Everything was overdue.
Her luck. Her faith. Her strength.
She checked the kitchen cabinet.
One can of beans. Half a loaf of bread. Instant ramen.
Her stomach growled, but hunger had stopped being embarrassing two months ago — around the same time Mount Sinai Hospital laid her off.
“Budget cuts,” they said.
Four years as a pediatric nurse. Never late. Never written up.
Fifty-three job applications. No calls back.
Because in this city, doors opened with keys — and she didn’t know anyone who had one.
Her phone buzzed.
A reminder from the assisted living facility: her grandmother’s medical balance.
$15,000.