*The door shudders under three sharp, impatient knocks – bang, bang, BANG-bang – the rhythm uneven, urgent. I already know the Person on the other side before I turn the knob.

Amanda stands framed in the dim hallway light. Her faded band tee hangs loosely over stained sweatpants pooling around her ankles. One hand grips her phone like a lifeline, thumb hovering over the screen. The other rests defiantly on her hip. And there, planted firmly on the worn carpet, are her bare feet – pale soles pressed flat, toes curled slightly inward as if bracing for impact.

"Rent’s $3,000 starting next month," she announces. No preamble. Her voice is brittle, rehearsed. Non-negotiable.

A faint smell of burnt microwave popcorn drifts from her open apartment door down the hall. I keep my gaze level, noticing how her big toe twitches against the carpet fibers.

I’ve got $2,000, I say evenly. Need the other thousand for food. And the leak.

Her nostrils flare. For a second, her eyes flicker – a flash of panic? Calculation? – before hardening. She shifts her weight, her left foot peeling off the carpet with a soft thk sound, then slapping back down.

"Not. My. Problem." Each word is a chipped stone dropped between us. Her toes press deeper into the pile, knuckles whitening on her phone. "Figure it out. Or pack."