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The drive home gave me too much time to think. My bank account sat in the back of my mind like a splinter I couldn’t pull out. The repair had cost less than expected, but less than expected still meant money I didn’t have. My father paid rent. That was it. Everything else—food, fuel, the occasional six-dollar skirt—came from me. And “me” was running alarmingly low.

Back at my apartment, I pulled off my boots and flopped onto the couch. The suit bag still lurked in the corner of my bedroom, a charcoal reminder that my father’s money always came with expectations. Wear this for the dinner next month. As if I’d forgotten. As if I hadn’t been dreading it since the card arrived.

Pulling the paper from my pocket, I stared at Deadeye’s number. Ten digits. Very neat. Very tempting to call for no reason at all.

“No,” I told myself. “You are not going to be that person.”

I set the number on my coffee table and tried to focus on the actual problem. Money. I needed a job. Something that paid enough to cover repairs and food and the occasional inexpensive indulgence. Something that didn’t require experience I didn’t have or references I couldn’t provide.

My resume was a joke. My work history was just as hilarious. The only thing I’d ever been consistently good at was annoying my father, and that didn’t come with a paycheck.

For the next three days, I applied everywhere. Grocery stores. Coffee shops. A bookstore that smelled like cats and mothballs. The grocery store wanted someone with stocking experience. The coffee shop wanted someone who could “bring positive energy to the team,” which I translated as “not openly sarcastic.” The bookstore never called back.

Maybe because I’d argued for a full ten minutes with the resident furrball about grooming his genitals on the counter in front of female customers. In front of me while I filled out the application.

Walking home from another failed attempt to secure a job, I spotted the sign on my apartment building’s notice board. It was typed, not handwritten, which suggested someone official had put it there.

MAINTENANCE TECHNICIAN NEEDED Flexible hours. Basic repairs. Experience required. Inquire at office.

I read it three times. Experience required.

How hard could it be to twist a wrench and declare something fixed?

The property manager, Mrs. Calloway, was a woman in her sixties with hair the color of old snow and glasses that hung from a chain around her neck. She looked at me over those glasses when I walked into her office, her expression suggesting she’d seen every type of tenant and wasn’t impressed by any of them.

“I’m here about the maintenance job,” I said with the confidence of someone who knew the difference between a lightbulb and a thingamabob.

“You have experience?”

“Absolutely.” I threw in a grin to mask the flat-out lie. “My father owned a…hardware store. I practically grew up with a wrench in my hand.”

Mrs. Calloway’s eyes narrowed. “Your father owns a hardware store?”

My father owned clinics. Close enough.

“Did. Past tense. It’s a very sad story I’d rather not discuss.” Mainly because I couldn’t think of a really good sob story.

She studied me for a long moment. I stood there in my fitted top and eyeliner, trying to look like someone who understood basic repairs. The silence stretched until I wanted to fill it with nervous chatter that would not only reveal the lie, but have me confessing every sin I’d ever committed.

“You’re the one in 4B,” she said finally. “Always wearing those outrageous outfits.”

“They make my skin glow.” I struck a tiny pose and instantly regretted my idiocy.

Another long pause. Then she shrugged and pulled out a form. “Fill this out. You start Monday. Pay’s fifteen an hour.”

The urge to jump up and down while clapping was overwhelming, but I forced my feet to stay firmly planted on the dull carpet.

Don’t you dare strike a bigger pose!

I took the form with hands that barely trembled. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

“We’ll see.”

Monday arrived faster than expected. I showed up in what I considered professional attire—sparkly shorts, a plain black T-shirt, and boots that were practical enough to pass for work-appropriate. The shorts were a choice I’d made at the last minute, swapping out a more conservative pair because these made me feel like myself.

If I was going to fake competence, I needed all the help I could get.

Mrs. Calloway handed me a toolbox and a list of units that needed attention. “Start with 2C. Leaky faucet. Should be simple.”