“No, no, no—don’t youdare, you temperamental bastard?—”
But it’s too late. The lights on the panel blink out. The machine lets out one final shudder and goes cold. The pot contains exactly enough brown sludge to coat the bottom. Not even a full swallow.
I whisper every swear word I know. Some in Italian. Some I made up when I used to work night shifts at the rehab center. Sammy watches with wide eyes. “You’re gonna throw it out, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I’m going to throw it into thesun.”
I reach for my phone to check the time—and of course that’s when it vibrates. A call. “Lipnicky Properties” flashes across the screen like a dare.
I answer with a sigh. “Hi, Mr. Alderman.”
My supervisor’s voice crackles with that saccharine, cloying tone he uses right before delivering bad news wrapped in corporate politeness. “Vanessa! Hope I didn’t wake you. Just a friendly reminder you’re slotted for a live eviction this morning—unit 4C on Main. Elderly male tenant, sixty-two, chronic non-payment. You’ll need to be on-site in, oh, twenty minutes. I left a clipboard on your desk with the paperwork.”
“Today?” I blink. “That’s not on the calendar until Friday.”
“Well,” he chirps, “Mr. Lipnicky himself decided to expedite this one. Something about clearing the lot before the Fourth. Firework permit logistics, I think.”
Firework permit logistics.
Ofcourse.
I look over at my fridge, wheremyrent notice is still stuck under a magnet shaped like a cursed squirrel. I can’t afford righteous indignation. Not when groceries cost more than gas and Sam’s shoes are talking at the seams again.
“Okay,” I say. Flat. Numb. My soul curling like a burnt pancake. “I’ll be there.”
I hang up. Sammy watches me closely.
“Bad call?” she asks.
“The worst,” I mutter, already peeling off my sleep shirt and grabbing the dry shampoo. “Lipnicky wants to evict an old guy this morning.”
Her little face scrunches up, all fire and instinctive justice. “Like… kick him out of his home?”
“Yup.”
“But that’s evil.”
“Welcome to capitalism, sweetheart.”
“But you’re not evil.”
I pause mid-spray, the chemical mist hanging in the air like regret.
“I’m not trying to be,” I whisper.
The shower doesn’t happen. The eyeliner is crooked. My slacks have a coffee stain from three days ago, and my blouse has a button that never quite closes right over the left boob, so I pin it with an old campaign button that says “Vote for Donut Dave” like that’s an acceptable wardrobe solution.
Sam eats dry cereal out of a mug while she lectures the cat—“Admiral Mittens”—about the fragile peace treaties of interstellar rodent alliances.
I scrape together my dignity and keys.
Just before I head out, I turn to her. “Don’t forget your homework. No using ‘diplomatic immunity’ as an excuse again.”
“Noted, Earth Mom.”
“Love you.”
“Love you more, citizen.”
