Chapter 1: Overdrawn and Overdue
The sparks that shot out of the charging port of Juniper’s laptop were a brilliant, festive blue. They were also, quite definitively, the final nail in the coffin of her financial stability.
With a soft, pathetic pop, the screen flickered, distorted into a jagged line of static, and went completely black. The faint smell of fried circuitry drifted up into her face.
“No, no, no. Please, no,” Juniper whispered, hitting the power button repeatedly. Her thumbs pressed so hard into the plastic that her knuckles turned white. “Come on, piece of junk. Just give me ten minutes. I just need to submit the invoice.”
The laptop remained stubbornly, aggressively dead.
Juniper let her forehead drop onto the sticker-covered lid of the laptop with a dull thud. It was a 2018 MacBook Air that she’d bought third-hand, held together by sheer willpower and a prayer. It was also her only lifeline. Without it, she couldn’t do her freelance graphic design side-gigs. And without those side-gigs, she couldn’t pay the remaining three hundred dollars she owed for rent.
Right on cue, a heavy, rhythmic pounding rattled her front door. The vibrations shuddered right through the floorboards of her tiny, drafty studio apartment and vibrated up her spine.
Speak of the devil.
Juniper squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath of air that smelled faintly of damp wallpaper and cheap coffee grounds, and stood up. She smoothed down her faded apron—the one covered in permanent mocha syrup stains from her day job—and pulled open the door.
Mr. Henderson, her landlord, stood in the hallway. He was a man shaped like a fire hydrant, wearing a grease-stained track jacket and a permanent scowl. In his hand, he held a brightly colored piece of paper.
“It’s the fifth, Juniper,” Henderson grunted, not bothering with a greeting. He held up the paper. It was a three-day notice to pay or quit. “You’re late. Again.”
“I know, Mr. Henderson, I’m so sorry,” Juniper said, forcing her voice into the most apologetic, sweet tone she could muster. “I have seventy percent of it. I was just about to send the invoice for a logo design I finished last night, but my computer literally just—”
“I don’t care about the computer. I don’t care about the logo,” Henderson interrupted, waving the paper in her face. “I care about the legal tender. The utility bills for this building went up ten percent this month. I’m not a charity.”
“I know you’re not. I just need until Friday. When my paycheck from the cafe clears, I’ll have the rest. I swear.”
Henderson looked past her into the apartment. It didn’t take long to scan; the kitchen, bedroom, and living room were all the same ten-by-ten space. A mattress sat on the floor in the corner, flanked by a makeshift nightstand made of milk crates.
“Friday,” Henderson growled, tapping his blunt finger against the notice before shoving it into her hand. “Five o’clock. If the remaining cash isn’t in my hand, I’m changing the locks on Saturday morning. I’ve already got three college kids lined up who will pay double what you’re paying just to live near campus. Don’t make me call them.”
“You’ll have it,” Juniper promised, her throat tight. “Thank you.”
He grunted again and turned on his heel, his heavy work boots stomping down the linoleum hallway.
Juniper closed the door and leaned her back against it, letting out a breath she felt like she’d been holding all day. She looked down at the bright pink paper in her hand. Three days.
Her phone buzzed in her apron pocket. She pulled it out, praying it was a notification that her bank account had somehow miraculously cloned itself. Instead, it was an alert from her banking app.
ACCOUNT ALERT: Your balance for checking account ending in 4402 has fallen below your custom alert threshold ($25.00). Current balance: $4.12.*
Four dollars and twelve cents.
Juniper let out a hollow, watery laugh. She couldn’t even buy a fancy version of the coffee she spent eight hours a day making for wealthy tech executives and tech-bros in downtown Seattle.
At twenty-four, she was supposed to be figuring things out. Instead, she was drowning. Ever since her grandmother passed away two years ago—leaving her entirely alone in the world with nothing but a box of old photographs and a mountain of medical debt to clear—Juniper had been in survival mode. She worked fifty hours a week at The Daily Grind, steamed milk until her wrists ached, took every low-paying freelance art job she could find on Craigslist, and still, she was one broken laptop away from being homeless.
She looked over at her reflection in the small, cracked mirror hanging near the door. Her dark hair was pulled into a messy, utilitarian bun, a few stray curls framing a face that looked pale and perpetually exhausted. Her hazel eyes, usually bright, looked heavy with dark circles.
“Get it together,” she whispered to her reflection. “You have a shift in twenty minutes. You can cry on your break.”
Shoving the pink eviction notice into her backpack, she grabbed her coat—a thrifted denim jacket that offered absolutely no protection against the damp, biting Seattle drizzle—and locked her door.
As she walked down the cracked concrete steps of her apartment building and into the gray afternoon, the rain began to fall in earnest, soaking through the canvas of her cheap sneakers within seconds.
Juniper lowered her head against the wind, pulling her collar up. She truly, honestly believed that life could not possibly get any worse than this.
She had no idea how wrong she was.
