I didn't have a lot of options.

After the layoff, I burned through most of my savings in under six months.

My lease was up, rent had jumped again, and I didn't exactly have stellar credit or a fallback plan.

What I had was a car full of boxes, a suitcase, and a laptop that would only boot up when plugged in

at a 45 degree angle. So, when I saw the ad, quiet single bedroom, detached, utilities

included, $600 per month, I messaged the number before I even finish reading the rest.

The landlord didn't ask any questions.

He didn't care about credit or ask for a background check.

All he wanted was the first month's rent in cash,

which I withdrew across three ATMs to avoid alerting the bank that I was nearly empty.

When I pulled up, the place looked decent, I guess, old but not falling apart.

A single level structure with chipped paint, crooked porch light, and a lived in smell that clung to the air like wet paper.

He handed me the keys with the lease still half filled out, said, don't worry about the

quirks. She's old, but she'll hold up.

Then got in his truck and left.

Inside was smaller than the photos. The living room bled straight into the kitchenette.

The floor groaned even when I wasn't moving, but it was quiet and it was mine. The bedroom was

plain, three white walls and one with wallpaper, floral and faded. It looked like something

out of an estate sale. It was the only decorative thing in the house, and even then, just barely.

I ran my hand over it. The paper was smooth, no tears but old. I figured maybe it was left over from a remodel

that never got finished. I tear it down and paint it later, add it to the list. That

night I set up a mattress on the floor, shoved my boxes into the corners, and fell asleep faster than I expected.

...