Chapter 2
VANESSA
Iwake up to the sound of a diplomatic crisis.
“I hereby declare the United States of North America a protectorate of the Unified Galactic Friendship Empire!” Sammy bellows, aiming the flashlight directly at a petrified half-eaten Pop-Tart. “Your waffles are now subject to taxation and universal breakfast law!”
“Sam,” I croak, voice like gravel in a blender, “if I don’t get caffeine in the next sixty seconds, I’m going to secede from this union and make you do algebra until your eyes bleed.”
She looks at me, all freckles and mischief, lowers the flashlight just a little. “Technically, the Galactic Charter says homework is outlawed in all Friendly Territories.”
“Technically, the human charter says I’m your mother and your galactic immunity is revoked if you track glitter into the bathroom again.”
She pouts. I smirk. And then we both hear it.
The cough.
Not mine. The coffee maker’s.
A single gurgle. One last, watery gasp.
And then nothing.
I lurch off the couch—still half-dressed from last night’s collapse into unconsciousness—stumble toward the kitchen, and slap the side of the coffee maker like I’m trying to resuscitate a dying friend.
“No, no, no—don’t you dare, you temperamental bastard—”
But it’s too late. The lights on the panel blink out. The machine lets out one final shudder and goes cold. The pot contains exactly enough brown sludge to coat the bottom. Not even a full swallow.
I whisper every swear word I know. Some in Italian. Some I made up when I used to work night shifts at the rehab center. Sammy watches with wide eyes. “You’re gonna throw it out, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I’m going to throw it into the sun.”
I reach for my phone to check the time—and of course that’s when it vibrates. A call. “Lipnicky Properties” flashes across the screen like a dare.
I answer with a sigh. “Hi, Mr. Alderman.”
My supervisor’s voice crackles with that saccharine, cloying tone he uses right before delivering bad news wrapped in corporate politeness.
“Vanessa! Hope I didn’t wake you. Just a friendly reminder you’re slotted for a live eviction this morning—unit 4C on Main.
Elderly male tenant, sixty-two, chronic non-payment.
You’ll need to be on-site in, oh, twenty minutes.
I left a clipboard on your desk with the paperwork. ”
“Today?” I blink. “That’s not on the calendar until Friday.”
“Well,” he chirps, “Mr. Lipnicky himself decided to expedite this one. Something about clearing the lot before the Fourth. Firework permit logistics, I think.”
Firework permit logistics.
Of course.
I look over at my fridge, where my rent notice is still stuck under a magnet shaped like a cursed squirrel. I can’t afford righteous indignation. Not when groceries cost more than gas and Sam’s shoes are talking at the seams again.
“Okay,” I say. Flat. Numb. My soul curling like a burnt pancake. “I’ll be there.”
I hang up. Sammy watches me closely.
“Bad call?” she asks.
“The worst,” I mutter, already peeling off my sleep shirt and grabbing the dry shampoo. “Lipnicky wants to evict an old guy this morning.”
Her little face scrunches up, all fire and instinctive justice. “Like… kick him out of his home?”
“Yup.”
“But that’s evil.”
“Welcome to capitalism, sweetheart.”
“But you’re not evil.”
I pause mid-spray, the chemical mist hanging in the air like regret.
“I’m not trying to be,” I whisper.
The shower doesn’t happen. The eyeliner is crooked. My slacks have a coffee stain from three days ago, and my blouse has a button that never quite closes right over the left boob, so I pin it with an old campaign button that says “Vote for Donut Dave” like that’s an acceptable wardrobe solution.
Sam eats dry cereal out of a mug while she lectures the cat—“Admiral Mittens”—about the fragile peace treaties of interstellar rodent alliances.
I scrape together my dignity and keys.
Just before I head out, I turn to her. “Don’t forget your homework. No using ‘diplomatic immunity’ as an excuse again.”
“Noted, Earth Mom.”
“Love you.”
“Love you more, citizen.”
Then I step outside into the July heat, where the air is already thick enough to chew, and I climb into my rust-pocked Hyundai that smells vaguely of crayon and lost hope.
I drive to evict a stranger.
Because morality doesn’t pay for rent.
Because being a good person is a luxury I can’t afford right now.
Because this is survival.
And because I love my daughter more than I hate myself.
Downtown Collinsville rolls into view like a memory someone keeps trying to repaint.
I’ve lived here my whole life, and yet every time I drive through the city center, it feels a little less mine.
The buildings still wear their bones proud—ornate cast iron balconies, weathered red brick, wide storefronts with names in curlicue hand-paint—but the soul is bleeding out.
It’s like watching your grandmother’s face fade behind heavy makeup, the kind that makes her look more porcelain than person.
I park the Hyundai two blocks away because I can’t stand to pull up right in front of the crime scene.
That’s what it feels like. I know the tenant.
Everyone does. Mr. Albert, the accordion guy.
Always on the bench near the festival plaza, playing old Italian ballads for loose change and smiles.
He’s got arthritis so bad he can’t play anymore, but he still wears his little newsboy cap and nods like he’s conducting the traffic.
Sixty-two years old and barely scraping by.
Now, because some spreadsheet somewhere decided his lease wasn't profitable enough, I’m supposed to kick him out of the only home he’s had for three decades.
I hate this part of the job.
No—I loathe it.
The clipboard feels like a weapon in my hands. A paper shield against the guilt gnawing at my gut.
I force my feet forward, up the cracked stone steps of the four-plex where Mr. Albert lives.
It smells like mildew and cigarette ash—familiar scents that should comfort but don’t.
The contractors are already here, leaning against their van in steel-toed boots and neon vests, cracking jokes I don’t care enough to understand.
One of them, a wiry guy with a jawline like a meat cleaver, raises an eyebrow at me.
“You Malone?”
“Yeah.”
“Fourth unit on the left. Old guy’s already packin’. Kinda sad, honestly.”
I grit my teeth. “Just change the locks when I tell you.”
“Hey, no problem. You’re the boss.”
I’m not the boss. Lipnicky is.
And speak of the devil.
He’s standing halfway down the sidewalk, immaculate as ever in a tailored gray suit that looks like it costs more than my entire car.
Wire-rimmed glasses catch the sun. His hair is combed in perfect strands that never seem to move, like a wax figure brought to life and programmed for respectful menace.
He doesn’t wave, doesn’t call out. Just watches.
Hands clasped behind his back, head slightly tilted like he’s admiring a museum piece.
Or maybe a grave marker.
I turn my eyes away before I say something I’ll regret and head to the door.
Unit 4C.
The buzzer hasn’t worked in years, so I knock—three soft raps, more apology than command.
After a pause, I hear shuffling, then the soft clink of a chain being unlatched.
The door opens an inch.
Mr. Albert peers out. His face is lined like riverstone, gray stubble on a sunken jaw, eyes dulled with the kind of tired that doesn’t sleep off. He sees me and sighs, long and low.
“Miss Malone,” he says, voice rasped but warm. “Knew you’d come. You always do.”
“Mr. Albert…” I can’t finish the sentence. I hold up the clipboard like a cross against vampires.
“I got the notice,” he says before I can explain. “Don’t blame you. You got a kid. World don’t make it easy for single moms.”
I nod, swallowing down the lump crawling up my throat.
He opens the door wider, revealing a living room crowded with mismatched boxes, most of them sagging with damp or age. A folded lawn chair sits where a couch should be. The air smells of old paper, furniture polish, and a faint hint of tomato sauce.
“I can give you fifteen more minutes,” I say softly. “Technically I’m supposed to call the locksmith now, but…”
“You already gave me more than you had to,” he says. “They gave me nowhere to go. My brother’s widow said I can sleep in her basement for a while, down near East St. Louis. Not ideal, but…”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
He walks past me, slow, hunched, carrying a box in both arms that looks too heavy for him.
One of the flaps opens and a cascade of cassette tapes spills out—Dean Martin, Connie Francis, Enrico Caruso.
My heart breaks a little watching him kneel and try to gather them up with fingers that tremble too much to hold anything steady.
I kneel beside him without thinking and help.
We scoop them into the box together, neither of us speaking. His knuckles brush mine and feel like knotted wood. Old, proud, tired.
“Your little girl,” he says quietly. “The one with the green eyes. She ever hear real accordion?”
“She’s into space stuff,” I say, smiling despite myself. “Aliens. UFOs. I don’t think polka’s on her playlist.”
He laughs. A dry, papery sound. “Shame. Used to be music in this town. Real music. People on their stoops, singing in Italian, dancing in the streets. Now it’s lawyers and chain burrito shops.”
I nod. “I know. I remember.”
“I miss it,” he says, voice cracking. “I miss when this town had a heart.”
When I come back outside, I sign the clipboard with a hand that’s shaking.
“Lock it,” I tell the contractor. My voice doesn’t sound like mine.
He shrugs and heads in with a tool kit and a crowbar.
Lipnicky is still watching.
I walk straight up to him, resisting the urge to chuck the clipboard into his smug face.
“That man had nowhere else to go,” I say.
“That man,” Lipnicky replies smoothly, “has been in arrears for six consecutive months. He was warned. Repeatedly.”
“He’s sixty-two.”