1. Burnt Toast Theory

"FUCK!""FUCK!"

"Stupid fucking cheap-ass toaster!"

I rush to unplug the flaming teal-colored single-slice toaster and, in my panic, decide to sling it into the sink by the cord. Then I snatch an entire five-pound bag of flour out of the cabinet and dump the contents over the quickly melting plastic, hoping it'll smother the flames.

Luckily, it does.

I exhale a long-held breath in relief.

The alarm on my phone goes off.

Taunting me.

I have to go.

That's on me for trying to eat breakfast for once.

I toss the charred toaster into the front flowerbed on my way out. I'll deal with that when I get home. And the flour. So much flour.

Getting into my car, I slam my foot onto the brake and hit the push-to-start button.

Nothing.

"Godfuckingdamnit."

I drop my head onto the steering wheel, banging it against the unyielding surface three times before popping the hood latch and getting out.

Prop open the hood.

Wiggle the battery terminals.

Try again.

This time, the shitbox cranks.

I quickly close the hood and back out of the yard to finally head to work.

I hit every red light on the way there—because of course I do. Why wouldn't I? I'm already late. Again.

It's hard to be on time when your held-together-by-bungee-cords-dollar-store-zip-ties-and-Gorilla-Tape car doesn't like to crank.

Or when your neighborhood is filled with loose, half-feral dogs and you walk outside to find one actively giving birth under your car like last month.

Or when you walk outside to find a lady shooting up in your yard, only for her to immediately decide it was her day to meet her maker like six weeks ago.

Unfortunately for my scrubs, which she reenacted the Exorcist vomiting scene onto, she chose the wrong nurse's single-wide to chase the dragon a little too close to the sun in front of.

I had three doses of naloxone in my purse.

Two of them had her name on them.

My scrubs had her stomach contents' name on them.

My ears had her calling me everything but a child of God in them.

And my clock-in time had a two-hours-late ding to it.

When I finally get to work, one of the local funeral home's hearses is parked out front.

Shit.

I jog into the nursing home to find several residents and staff members gathered in the lobby.

My heart drops.

"No."

My bottom lip trembles.

My coworker, Martha, turns toward me, her sad expression immediately shifting into pity.

"Cadie—" she starts, walking toward me with outstretched arms.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

"No. No. No. Tell me Ms. Abbigail is not in that fucking Cadillac, Martha."

She wraps me in an embrace, my cheek pressed against her shoulder.

"You and I both know if Ms. Abbigail wasn't, she'd be right here in the middle of the hot gossip."

I take a shuddering breath, breathing in Martha's White Diamonds perfume and the scent of eau de old folks' home.

"Fucking hell."

Martha gives me one good squeeze before releasing me.

"You know it's part of the job." She sighs, placing a hand on my shoulder and leading me toward the nurses' station.

"I know, I know. I do. And I know better than to have favorites or soft spots or get attached. But Ms. Abbigail was worth it."

In truth, Ms. Abbigail was a mean old bitch.

And I loved her for it.

She would tell anyone who dared to try to tame her or tone her down that she was too old not to enjoy the finest things in life—such as being cunty, gossiping, day drinking, Benson & Hedges Luxury 100s, and getting her grandson to sneak her in edibles.

She was a real queen.

A royal pain in my ass—but nursing home royalty nonetheless.

I start to get myself together to do my rounds and get on with my workday. I wouldn't cry. Ms. Abbigail would have made fun of me and told everyone what a pansy I was if I cried over her.

I start toward my first resident's room, only to be stopped by Yolanda.

The bane of my existence.

My boss.

"Cadence—I'm going to have you step into my office for me."

Now.

Now I might cry.

Fired.

Late too many times. Dealt too many "fuck yous" from the universe within ninety days.

Only three missed days and five late arrivals in ninety days.

The whole spiel.

I know the rules.

I also know I've given pieces of myself that I'll never get back to this depressing end-of-the-road-for-the-geriatric, understaffed-and-underpaid burial ground for the living dead over the last two years.

I also know she just fucked Martha and everyone else over for the foreseeable future by sending me on my unemployed way until they replace me.

If they bother to replace me at all.

I don't say goodbye.

Not to anyone.

Martha is busy.

Ms. Abbigail is gone.

My tail is tucked, and back to my shitbox I head.

This time at a slower pace.

Not visibly mopey. My head is held high.

My tail is only tucked on the inside.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

I repeat it over and over in my head all the way back to my car.

I keep repeating it as I have to get out, pop the hood, and wiggle the battery terminals again to get it to crank.

Twice.

I keep repeating it as I pull out of the parking lot and head back to a piece-of-shit single-wide with a month-to-month lease I won't be able to afford for another month.

I repeat it all the way until I walk up to my front door and find the termination notice waiting for me.

The thing is...

I don't cry.

I burst into hysterical, nearly maniacal laughter.

NOTICE OF TERMINATION OF TENANCY

Date of Notice: September 15, 2026

To: Cadence Howell

Premises: 3965 Palomino Circle, Milton, Florida 32570

This notice serves as formal notification that your month-to-month tenancy at the above-referenced premises is terminated without cause.

You are required to vacate the premises and surrender possession, including removal of all personal belongings, no later than thirty (30) days of receipt of this notice.

This termination is without cause and is being provided in accordance with the terms of your tenancy and applicable Florida law.

Failure to vacate by the termination date may result in legal action to recover possession of the premises.

Landlord: Richard Brookes

Date: June 15th, 2026

Oh, Dick.

Thank you. Thank you for that.

At least now I don't have to formally tell him I'm unemployed and can't afford to live in a falling-apart single-wide in a neighborhood with feral dogs, biannual meth lab fires, and neighbors who require me to stay strapped with both my nine-mil and my Narcan supply.

At least he gave me that shred of dignity by kicking me to the fucking curb.

I glance at the flour-coated, half-melted toaster on the ground in the sad excuse for a flower bed and let out one more chuckle before heading inside.

I ignore the flour on the peeling linoleum and in the scratched-to-hell sink and head straight for my bedroom.

I strip out of my scrubs, kick my Crocs off, toss my bra, and shimmy out of my unattractive but practical granny panties.

I fall face-first into bed and hope I suffocate.

I don't.

I do, however, hear my phone chime.

I groan, pushing myself upright on the bed and reaching for the little machine that very well could just end up being Pandora's box of more fuck-yous from the universe.

Oh—Hailey.

I open the text.

Call me when you get a chance—and no, it's nothing bad, anxiety gremlin.

I half-smile for the first time today.

My childhood best friend knows me well.

I head back into the kitchen, stepping over the flour I'm pretending doesn't exist again, and grab the orange juice and bottle of cheap Prosecco from the fridge.

Ten in the morning?

More like five o'clock somewhere.

I make myself a mimosa and head back to the bedroom with my breakfast of champions.

Mimosas are always best when you're naked in bed anyway.

I call Hailey once I'm back in bed.

"Shouldn't you be at work?" she answers on the second ring.

"Shouldn't you?" I retort, taking a sip of my drink.

"I am, thank you. I'm actually working right now, speaking to you."

I sit up a little straighter.

Hailey is a big-shot Director of Private Client Services. In short, she makes medical arrangements for important people. Mainly politicians and CEOs who break their hips golfing or have heart attacks while fucking their secretaries.

"You have a local client?" I ask, setting my drink down.

"Well, not exactly. I have a client who is staying locally and under the radar during their care and recovery process. This client isn't originally from here."

Hailey's vague answer piques my interest tenfold.

"What do you have for me? Whatever it is—yes. But what is it?"

Hailey sighs with relief.

"I was hoping you'd be willing. I know your heart is in the old folks' home, but this client is... special. And I've taken over making the arrangements from the original coordinator on this case because of the nature of this patient's..." She pauses. "Disposition."

She sighs again.

I cringe.

"What are the job requirements? What are the care needs?" I ask, picking my mimosa back up and preparing for what I've already agreed to. What I had to agree to, no matter what, after this morning's events that snowballed down a hill into Hell.

"This client has been in a vehicle accident. Comminuted, open segmental fracture of the left femoral shaft. You know more about that than I do—lots of wound care and mobility aid. Also some lacerations to the left arm. Lots of bumps and bruises. As far as the crash—no charges filed, but staying very hush-hush due to the nature of their career. Hence staying here of all places to hide out and recover. Family are non-U.S. citizens, and the client does not wish to receive their help.

"This is an in-home and live-in position. Mobility help, med management, the works. It also requires some extra non-medical tasks. Cooking and cleaning and laundering. This client is trying to minimize ins and outs to one person. An NDA is also non-negotiable, of course."

I grimace.

"Please just tell me it's not some dirty old Republican congressman or something."

I hold my breath.

It must be.

Honestly. Why wouldn't it be after today?

Hailey chuckles.

Bad sign?

"No. Very, very much the opposite."

There's a hint of mischief to her tone.

"Do I know of this client?"

"Oh, you most certainly do. I can't tell you until I have a signed NDA, though. I'll send you the DocuSign form now, and once I get it and file it, I'll call you back and we'll go into some further detail."

The curiosity might as well kill me just as dead as Ms. Abbigail.

"What am I getting myself into, Hailey?"

"A whole lot of fucking money, for one," she muses.

"I already agreed—but definitely sold it on that note."

"I cannot wait to tell you."

Hailey sounds much less professionally stressed now.

She sounds like... Hailey.

That puts me at ease.

"I'm sending it now. Give me a few minutes to get things sorted on my end, and I'll call you back. You're not going to be busy, are you?" she asks.

I bark out a laugh.

"No. No, I am not."

She pauses, definitely wanting to pry but deciding not to.

"I'll talk to you as soon as I get this done. Thank you, Cadie. I cannot thank you enough."

And with that, she hangs up.

-colored single-slice toaster and, in my panic, decide to sling it into the sink by the cord. Then I snatch an entire five-pound bag of flour out of the cabinet and dump the contents over the quickly melting plastic, hoping it'll smother the flames.