Buckets after storms. A dead chair. A rusted vent that screamed all night until somebody kicked it and pretended that counted as maintenance. Water gathered in shallow pools. She started going up because the downstairs neighbor kept leaving notes. PLEASE. THE NOISE. SOME OF US HAVE JOBS. Underlined twice, like the pen had something to prove. The landlord saw her one afternoon with her shoes in her hands and her hair tied back tight.

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