Chapter One
Samantha Mayfield wearily climbed the steps to her second-floor garage apartment and sighed.
The soft wood bent beneath her feet. She hoped the stairs’ decay wasn’t about to rot completely through. That would be just her luck!
She wasn’t very high up. From this distance, the fall would most likely just break her legs. Maybe an arm.
More bad luck.
She didn’t have health insurance. And there was no way she could afford those medical bills.
With that in mind, she gripped the railing tighter. The ancient wood was loose and flakey. She felt a splinter shoot into her palm.
“Ouch!”
Making a mental note to complainyet againto the company that managed her property, she took the next four steps two at a time, just eager to reach the top.
Of course, there was no guarantee that her actual apartment wouldn’t cave in. She’d felt a few weak spots on the floor. Part of her suspected termite damage. But it might have been years of neglect, too.
She’d just have to add that to the list of problems the landlords chose to ignore.
“It’s okay,” she whispered to herself as she put the key in the lock, turned it, and opened the door. “Things won’t be like this forever.”
Samantha hoped that was the case, at least. Perhaps if she repeated that to herself enough times it would one day come true. Like she could manifest that positivity into reality or something.
She hoped.
Stepping inside and closing the door behind her—and quickly locking it—she found a tidy space.
It was easy to keep clean. There wasn’t much stuff. What she did have, she kept in a neat and tidy order.
After washing her hands, she opened the cabinets in the kitchen—which was also the living room and her bedroom—and clicked her tongue as she surveyed the options.
Like her apartment’s furnishings, there wasn’t much.
A few cans of veggies. Some fruit cups. Granola bars. Half a loaf of bread. Peanut butter.
“Better than nothing,” she reminded herself.
When she reached into the fridge to grab some grape jelly, she saw the options weren’t much better in there. But there was still some milk left. Score!
Milk made every PB&J sandwich better.
Once she’d poured a glass and finished making her dinner, she put the sandwich on a paper plate, carried it to the couch, and plopped down. Out of habit, she nearly reached for the television remote but then remembered the wall in front of her was now bare.
The TV was pawned two days ago.
It hadn’t even netted her much money. Televisions just didn’t cost a lot these days. But when you’re in a pinch, forty dollars is better than nothing.
She was eating that forty dollars now. Had the TV still been there, she wouldn’t have been able to afford the stuff to make a sandwich.
Suddenly, Samantha wanted to cry.
“It won’t always be this way,” she reminded herself. But her voice—and the words it carried—weren’t very convincing.
“One day…”
The statement wasn’t finished, because she didn’t know what would happen one day.
