Let me set the scene first. My basement apartment was exactly what you would expect for $600 a month in the city. Water stains decorated the ceiling like abstract patterns, and the radiator clattered through the night like someone hitting it with a wrench.

But it was all I could afford now, at 26, after everything that had happened. The kitchen counter served as my desk, workspace, and dining table. A small twin bed filled one corner, its metal frame showing where the sheets had slipped off.

The walls were thin enough that I could hear every footstep from the apartment above, each a reminder of how far I had fallen from my old life.