The end of the fucking month.
I glance at the calendar pinned to the wall, the cheerful kittens in the picture mocking me.
Three weeks.
A laugh bubbles up, sharp, bitter, and verging on hysteria.
Of course.
From raised rent straight to eviction? Of course this would happen now. My fingers curl into a fist so tight my nails dig half-moons into my palm. I want to punch something, to scream until my throat bleeds, but what good would that do? Three goddamn weeks to find somewhere I can afford in a city that’s been slowly pushing me out since the day I arrived. And to add the fucking cherry on top of my shit sundae…I just handed away my last twenty-three dollars.
For a moment I stand here, rage and terror wrestling inside me like two starving animals. My phone slips in my sweat-slicked palm. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack and my chest heaves with breaths too shallow to reach my lungs.
This is fine. People move all the time. And they survive worse.
I can do this.
I don’t know how I’ll fucking do this, but I can do it.
The thought lands like it always does, hard and familiar.
Mari.
Mari will know what to do.
She’s my voice of reason every time I need it.
When my time is done at the Pantry, I wave goodbye to Helen and the other volunteers and then start the hike from mid-town to the Alley Tap by way of my favorite thrift shop. With any luck, Mari will be able to talk sense to the Mad-Hatter vibes going on in my brain.
It smells like dust and old paper and lavender when I finally step inside Funky Junk, my favorite place in the city. My hair is damp from the misty precipitation outside, but what else is new? It’s Portland in the fall.
Mari looks up from behind the counter, her usual bright smile nowhere to be found.
“You look tired, Niña.”
“I feel it,” I admit. “And my real workday hasn’t even started yet.” I study her lifeless expression for just a second and say, “Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t look any better than me. You feeling alright?”
She gestures for me to come around the counter. When I do, she takes my hands in hers, hands that tremble slightly, I notice. Her eyes are swollen, the whites threaded with red, and tears have carved tracks down her cheeks like tiny riverbeds.
Has she been crying?
What’s wrong, Mari?
“Frank passed,” she says, her voice cracking on his name.
Her words land like a wrecking ball to my chest and for just a moment, I can’t breathe.
Frank.
The old man who shuffled in every Tuesday with his cane tapping a gentle rhythm as he looked through Mari’s latest treasures. The one who donated blankets to the homeless shelter even when his own heat got shut off last winter. The one who kept butterscotch candies in his pockets for any kids he might pass by, the wrappers always slightly linty but the gesture so pure it made my throat ache. If I remember correctly, we last bonded over a potato salad bowl.
“When?” I manage to ask through the vise tightening around my windpipe.
She sniffles. “They found him last night. Alone in his apartment.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “They think he was there a couple days before anyone found him.”
My knees nearly buckle.
A couple of days.
