Chapter 4
Diane’s snoring has reached performance art levels.
Like, seriously, is she auditioning for the role of “Human White Noise Machine” in some avant-garde sleep theater?
The curtain between us might as well be tissue paper for all the acoustic privacy it provides.
I hate her peaceful slumber with the burning intensity of a thousand suns—or at least with the intensity of someone who hasn’t slept in what feels like geological epochs.
My body’s vibrating with a low-grade electric hum that I’m choosing to diagnose as caffeine withdrawal rather than acknowledge it as the anxiety it actually is. Clever strategy, really. Can’t be having a panic attack if you haven’t had your morning coffee yet. That’s just science.
I don’t even realize I’ve slept until my alarm goes off at six-fifteen.
Two hours of unconsciousness that my body snatched when my mind finally surrendered to exhaustion.
The gentle vibration of my phone against the metal frame of my cot sounds like a whisper to me, but apparently registers as a sonic boom to Diane.
Snore machine—who’s been happily sawing logs with the acoustic force of a chainsaw convention all night—has the audacity to hiss, “Have some consideration, would ya?” about the whisper-quiet buzz coming from my phone.
The irony is so thick you could serve it for breakfast, which is exactly what I won’t be getting at this hour in the shelter’s dining hall.
My first-day outfit I’ve laid out is staring back at me from the chair—a silent judgment panel for my life choices.
I tried it on three times last night, each iteration slightly less “woman who definitely doesn’t live in a homeless shelter.
” The yellow cardigan is a particular act of defiance.
Like, yes, I’m starting a job for a potential mob boss today, but I’ll be damned if I don’t bring a little sunshine to the criminal enterprise.
Three weeks until I’m officially homeless instead of just shelter-homeless. The distinction feels important in the way that choosing between drowning in ten feet of water versus one hundred feet feels important—technically different but practically identical in outcome.
My brain keeps whispering that today isn’t normal, will never be normal, that “normal” packed its bags and left town without leaving a forwarding address. But I’m holding it together with the emotional equivalent of dollar-store tape and pure spite.
Welcome to Monday, where the rules are made up and my dignity doesn’t matter.
The shelter is quiet when I head to the door at 7:20 a.m.—too quiet, like someone replaced the background music with a deleted scene from The Shining. The kind of silence that practically begs for an ominous wind chime or creepy child’s laughter.
Sister Margaret hunches over her desk like a gargoyle guarding the gates of bureaucratic purgatory.
Her mug says “Blessed,” but her eyes say, “I’ve seen your type before.
” She looks up from what I assume is her morning ritual of calculating exactly how many prayers it would take to save my soul (answer: infinity plus one).
“Good luck today, Emmaleen.”
Four words. Four horsemen of the apocalypse. Translation: Don’t blow this job like you’ve blown everything else. We’ve already mentally packed your things.
I force my face into what I hope resembles gratitude rather than constipation and nod. The countdown clock in my head ticks louder—twenty-one days.
This is fine.
My yellow cardigan flaps behind me like a coward’s cape as I walk out, the cool morning air slapping me awake.
The calendar insists it’s still summer, but fall’s already staging a coup.
The warmth will claw back at noon, die at dusk, and in a few weeks—twenty-one days, ironic—the last light of summer will fall like a toppled regime.
My boots hit the sidewalk with more confidence than I feel—cracked leather, barely holding together, but louder than fear. Like we’re both pretending to be something we’re not.
I don’t sit on the bus. Standing feels safer. Easier to make an exit if this all goes sideways. The bus is mostly empty—small town, small dreams. I grip the railing and pull my cardigan tight, as if yellow cotton could pass for armor.
Lemon cardigan, oatmeal tank, sage skirt with buttercream flowers—I look like a Whole Foods aisle had a one-night stand with a Pinterest board.
The skirt flutters when I shift, almost pretty, almost brave.
The boots creak—a warning and a comfort.
My tote bumps my hip, the faded Save the Bees patch catching the light like it still believes in something.
I don’t. But it’s part of the costume. The illusion that this patchwork of thrift and hope might still pass for functional.
It’s just a job, I tell myself. Just a man. Giovanni Bavga—polished menace with a face that could launch a thousand HR complaints. I remember how he looked at me in the interview. Not dismissive. Not even cruel. Just clinical, like he saw my cracks and filed them under useful.
I get off the bus two blocks early because I’ve misjudged the time; it’s twenty-five minutes till eight, and apparently I’m now the kind of person who punishes herself with unnecessary cardio.
Nothing says “I’m professional and definitely won’t bring crime family drama into your life” like showing up slightly sweaty and panting.
The restaurant sits across the street like a glossy magazine cover—all polished windows and elegant lettering that practically whispers, “We don’t accept EBT cards.” The name Bavga’s curves in script that hints at vintage calligraphy.
7:45. The sweet spot of employment humiliation. My heart pounds but I cross the street with my chin lifted in what I hope reads as determination rather than rigor mortis of the facial muscles.
Still my chains. Still my choice.
I cling to my new mantra like it’s the last life vest on the Titanic.
I’ve survived worse.
The door handle feels cold under my palm. I tug. Nothing happens. I pull harder, because clearly the problem is insufficient upper body strength and not, you know, a locked door. The handle remains unmoved, like my employment prospects.
I press my face against the glass like a Victorian orphan eyeing a Christmas feast. Chairs stacked upside down on tables. Lights off. The place has big “everyone died in the apocalypse” energy.
A sign stares back at me with the smug certainty of a hall monitor catching you without a bathroom pass: Tuesday–Sunday, 5 p.m. to 11 p.m. Closed Monday.
I check my phone. 7:48 a.m. Monday. Definitely Monday.
My stomach performs an Olympic-worthy triple axel with a twist. Cold dread slithers under my skin like a snake looking for somewhere warm to hibernate.
Be here at 8 a.m. Monday morning. Don’t be late. That’s what he said. Maybe I got it wrong. Maybe this is some kind of test. Maybe I’m about to ugly-cry on a public sidewalk in front of a closed restaurant while wearing a cardigan the color of optimism’s corpse.
I take a deep breath, switch to survival mode, and do what any sensible person would do in a high-pressure situation: I circle the building like I’m casing it for a heist. Because nothing says “reliable new employee” like prowling around a mobster’s restaurant on Monday morning.
The alley behind Bavga’s is suspiciously immaculate.
Not your standard restaurant back-alley with cigarette butts and mysterious puddles that might be rainwater (but definitely aren’t).
This is operating-room clean. Witness-protection clean.
“We’ve-definitely-disposed-of-bodies-here-but-you’ll-never-find-evidence” clean.
And there it is—the Lamborghini, parked like a shark in shallow water.
Matte black, all angles and aggression, looking both impossibly expensive and impossibly dangerous.
The car equivalent of a loaded gun on a coffee table.
He’s here. Somewhere. Probably watching me flail like a PBS documentary on job interview anxiety.
I knock on the back door with what I hope is professional crispness but sounds more like a terrified woodpecker. Nothing. I knock again, harder this time, channeling the energy of every unreturned text I’ve ever sent. Still nothing. Just silence and my rapidly evaporating dignity.
It’s 8:03 now. I’ve officially crossed the threshold from “punctual” to “problem.” My stomach feels like it’s hosting tryouts for Cirque du Soleil.
Was this some elaborate setup? A test of initiative?
Or just the universe’s way of saying “Nice try with the yellow cardigan, but poverty is more your color”?
I’m on my third lap around this culinary fortress when I spot it—a narrow metal staircase tucked between two walls, practically invisible unless you’re looking for it. Which I wasn’t. Because normal buildings have doors, not architectural Easter eggs.
8:07. I’m not just late now. I’m “remember that time I almost had financial stability” late.
The metal staircase might as well have “Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here” engraved on each step. It’s narrow, steep, and creaking like the world’s most ominous ASMR track. Tetanus probably costs extra.
I grab the railing—cold and slightly sticky, delightful—and haul myself upward, my sensible thrift-store boots clunking with each step.
The platform at the top is approximately the size of a postage stamp, or more accurately, the size of my remaining self-respect.
Just enough room to stand and contemplate all my life choices that led to this precarious metal ledge outside a mobster’s lair.
A plain door sits there. No “Giovanni Bavga, Criminal Mastermind” plaque.
No “Employees Must Wash Hands Before Returning to Organized Crime” sign.
Just weathered metal with chipped black paint.
But it’s open—just a crack—like the universe is saying, “Come on in, we’ve been expecting your catastrophic failure. ”