Chapter 1: The Eviction Notice
The eviction notice was taped to the door with two strips of packing tape, the cheap kind that leaves residue when you peel it off. Ashley stood in the hallway, her keys still in her hand, reading the words for the third time. The fluorescent light above her flickered and buzzed like a dying insect.
"Ash? You coming in or what?"
Mike's voice drifted through the door. She could hear him moving around inside, the soft thud of his sneakers on the worn carpet. She peeled the notice off the wood, careful not to tear it, and let herself in.
The apartment looked the same as it had this morning. Which was to say, like a waystation for people who'd run out of places to run. Half-unpacked boxes lined the walls in uneven stacks, their flaps gaping open. A frying pan sat on the counter next to a bottle of dish soap and a single sock, as if someone had started one task and immediately abandoned it for another. The wallpaper near the window had peeled back in long, damp strips, exposing something beneath that might once have been flowers but now looked more like bruises.
Mike was sprawled across the mattress on the floor, his phone held above his face. The blue light washed over his features, making him look younger than twenty-three. Softer. Like the boy she'd met at that warehouse party two years ago, the one who'd made her laugh so hard she'd snorted beer through her nose.
"Hey," he said, not looking up. "You grab dinner?"
Ashley held up the notice. "We got served."
His thumb kept scrolling. "Served what?"
"Eviction, Mike. We're being evicted."
That got his attention. He lowered the phone, propping himself up on one elbow. His hair stuck up on one side, flattened on the other. "What? When?"
"Today, apparently. There's a court date and everything." She dropped her bag by the door and crossed to the kitchenette, stepping over a pile of laundry that had been there for six days. "We're three months behind. I told you this was coming."
"I know, I know." He sat up fully, running a hand through his hair. "I thought I could catch up. The gig at the warehouse—"
"Fell through. Yeah, I remember." She opened the fridge out of habit, even though she knew it was empty except for a jar of pickles and two beers. "What are we supposed to do, Mike?"
He was quiet for a moment. The refrigerator hummed, a low, rattling sound that had been getting worse for weeks. Outside, a car backfired somewhere in the distance.
"What about your uncle?" he said finally.
Ashley turned. "What?"
"Didn't you say you had an Uncle Gerald. He's got that place over in Camden. The old house with the extra rooms."
"I know who Gerald is. I'm asking why you're bringing him up."
Mike set his phone down and stood, stretching like this was any other conversation. Like they were discussing what to order for dinner. "He's your family. He'd probably be willing to help us out. Just for a few months, until we get back on our feet."
"Just for a few months, until we get back on our feet."
The words hung there like smoke, curling through the stale air of the apartment. Ashley stared at Mike, searching his face for something she couldn't name. A joke, maybe. Some sign he understood what he was asking.
He didn't flinch. Just stood there with his hands in his pockets and that easy expression he wore when he thought he'd solved something.
"Mike. I haven't talked to my Uncle Gerald in fifteen years."
"So? He's still family." He shrugged, like that meant anything. "People reconnect all the time. It's not weird."
"It is weird. It's weird because you don't know him. You don't know anything about him."
"So tell me."
Mike flopped back onto the mattress, phone forgotten on the floor beside him. "Alright, then. Tell me about the guy."
Ashley stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed tight over her chest. The radiator under the window clanked like someone hitting it with a wrench.
"He's my mother's brother. Lived out in Camden his whole life. Never left." She paused, feeling the old acid rise in her throat. "When my mom died, he showed up at the funeral. I was six. He smelled like whiskey and muscle rub. Told me I looked just like her."
Mike waited.
"That's it. That's the whole story."
"That's not the whole story."