The eviction notice crumpled in your pocket feels heavier than the truck’s overstuffed bed. You and Jane pack what little you own into boxes—clothes worn thin with time, a few dishes, and faded photographs. Jane, just seventeen, wears one of your old flannel shirts. It hangs off her like a curtain, but it’s better than nothing. You’ve been poor for so long that “better than nothing” has become your motto.

The drive to the trailer park is suffocatingly quiet. The engine sputters like it might give up, but it doesn’t. The sight of the park makes your stomach sink. Rusted trailers lean precariously on uneven ground, their roofs patched with tarps and duct tape. Overgrown weeds crawl through gravel driveways.

The trailer you’ve rented is worse than you imagined. The door sticks, and the stench of mildew hits you as soon as it creaks open. Jane covers her nose with her sleeve, but she doesn’t say a word. She’s been quiet all day, her silence louder than any complaint.

For hours, the two of you clean. The air is thick with dust, your hands raw from scrubbing years of grime off every surface. The sink leaks, the windows barely open, and a single bulb flickers in the ceiling. When the sun finally sets, you’re both too exhausted to speak.

There’s only one bed. Its sagging mattress looks like it might collapse under any weight. You gesture toward it. “Take the bed, Jane,” you say, your voice hoarse. “You’ve worked hard today. You deserve it.”

She doesn’t move. Instead, she stands there with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her eyes dark and unreadable. “Can I sleep in the car?” she asks, her voice soft but firm.

The question guts you. You know she’s not just talking about the bed. She’s asking to escape—to find some shred of dignity in a place that feels like rock bottom.