I had exactly two days left before the landlord’s assistant came back to lock the door. The deadline was Friday at five in the afternoon, and my pocket was empty.
I turned onto the avenue leading toward the older district of Oak Ridge. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp pavement and coal dust from the old rail yard. Most of the brick buildings along this stretch had been boarded up since the grocery store closed down three years ago, leaving only a few quiet storefronts active.
My tires crunched on some loose gravel as I pulled into a narrow spot directly across from the pawn shop. I stared at the digital display on the dashboard until it changed to 8:44 AM. My fingers hovered over the glove box button, hesitating.
Inside lay the blue velvet jewelry tray I had smuggled out of the apartment before Julian could notice it. I clicked the latch. The tray looked thin and worn under the gray morning light, its fabric shedding tiny blue fibers onto my lap.
I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.
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