And froze.
Something was wrong. The air felt different—disturbed. I hadn't left the light on, but it was on now, casting harsh shadows across my small space. My heart hammered against my ribs as my eyes darted around the room. The room seemed untouched—at least at first glance. Nothing was obviously missing or broken. But as I scanned the space more carefully, cold dread crept up my spine. Things weren't right. My few possessions had been straightened, organized in a way I never would have left them. The stack of unpaid bills I'd left scattered on the small table was now neatly aligned. The dirty mug I'd abandoned in the sink that morning was clean and placed on the drying rack.
Someone had been in here. Someone had touched my things.
My gaze darted to my bed—and that's when I saw him. Mr. Snuggles lay face down on the floor, one arm stretched out as if reaching for help. I'd left him carefully propped against my pillow, not discarded on the ground like trash.
"No," I whispered, rushing forward to scoop him up. My fingers trembled as I brushed imaginary dirt from his fur. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
I clutched him to my chest, spinning in a slow circle as I took in more details. I opened the tiny fridge and nearly sobbed in relief when my insulin was there.
My knees gave out, and I sank onto the edge of my bed, Mr. Snuggles clutched against my pounding heart. I didn't have much worth stealing—no TV, no jewelry, nothing valuable except...
Someone had definitely been in, but what should I do?
A sob built in my chest, but I swallowed it down. Crying wouldn't help. I needed to think.
I forced myself to stand, to check the locks on my door and windows. The lock didn't appear to be forced—whoever had come in either had a key or knew how to pick locks. The thought sent another wave of fear through me. Someone could come back at any time.
I reached for my phone with trembling fingers, then froze. Who would I call? The police? They barely patrolled this neighborhood, and what would I tell them? Nothing was missing, and the place looked better than when I'd left it. They'd laugh at me, especially once they saw where I lived.
Walker? The thought came unbidden, his face flashing in my mind. But I'd pushed him away, refused his help. And what if he thought I was just making excuses to see him again?
I sank back onto the bed, pulling my knees to my chest. I couldn't stay here tonight. Whoever had been in my apartment might come back, and next time they might want more than to snoop through my things.
Mrs. Ramirez. She might let me sleep on her couch. She'd been kind to me before, offering me leftovers when she made too much food.
I gathered my glucose meter, insulin, and a change of clothes into my backpack, tucking Mr. Snuggles safely inside. With one last look around my violated home, I locked the door behind me and hurried down the hall to 3C.
I knocked softly, hoping she was still awake. After a moment, I heard shuffling footsteps, and the door opened a crack.
"Lottie?" Mrs. Ramirez's eyes widened when she saw my face. "Dios mío, what happened to you?"
"I'm sorry to bother you so late," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "But someone broke into my apartment. Nothing's missing, but..." My voice cracked. "I'm scared to stay there tonight."
Her weathered face softened immediately. "Come in, niña." She opened the door wider, ushering me inside her apartment, which smelled of spices and fabric softener. "You can stay as long as you need."
Relief made my knees weak. "Just tonight," I promised. "I don't want to impose."
"Nonsense." She guided me to her worn but comfortable couch. "You're not imposing. Now, have you eaten? You look pale."
I hadn't eaten since my break at work—a granola bar and half a juice I'd bought with my employee discount. I knew I needed to eat but I hesitated.
Mrs. Ramirez clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "I'll make you some tea. And I have leftover arroz con pollo."
Before I could protest, she bustled into her tiny kitchen. I sank deeper into the couch cushions, exhaustion washing over me. The events of the past twenty-four hours swirled in my mind like a bad dream—the attack, Walker's rescue, the break-in. It was too much.
Mrs. Ramirez’s husband Eduardo came in and listened to his wife speaking in rapid Spanish as she gestured to me. He shook his head, then walked to a closet and pulled out a small toolbox. “I put you a big bolt on the inside of your door.”
I was so relieved I nearly burst into tears. At least I would be safe inside, and I handed him my keys. I stood up but she shook her head and took my hand, walking me to their small kitchen table and setting food out in front of me. I knew I should checkmy blood sugar, but I wasn’t doing it in front of Mrs. Ramirez and I wasstarving.
The chicken and rice smelled amazing. Mrs. Ramirez clucked again and set a glass of iced water in front of me. “Eat,” she ordered.
So, I did.
The next morning Mrs. Ramirez insisted on feeding me again, but I knew I should check my blood sugar. I felt sick and shaky and my head was hurting, and I only had an hour to get to work for the day shift. I hurried back to my apartment, clutching the small bag of bread rolls Mrs. Ramirez had insisted I take. Eduardo had installed a sturdy deadbolt on my door overnight, and the solid click as I locked it behind me provided a small measure of comfort. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that my private space had been violated. Everything remained in that unnaturally neat arrangement, as though someone had been playing house with my meager possessions.
My glucose monitor beeped insistently when I checked it: 210 mg/dL. Too high. The rice and chicken last night, followed by Mrs. Ramirez's sweet bread for breakfast, had sent my blood sugar soaring. I needed insulin, and I needed it now.
