The doorbell jiggles—three short, impatient rings that yank me out of my spiral. I freeze on the couch, tissues balled in my fist, mascara tracks dried on my cheeks. Who the hell is that? My stomach drops. Landlady, probably. Rent was due four days ago, and I haven’t answered her texts. I haven’t answered anyone. I stopped going to work last week, called in “sick” until my voice cracked, and now I’m pretty sure I’m fired. Money’s gone, pride’s gone, everything’s gone.

I ...