“You don’t belong here, Clara. Pack your scrubs and get out.” Dr. Vance said it loud enough for the Tuesday morning shift at Mercy General’s glass-walled lobby to turn. He flicked my ID badge right into a puddle of spilled pumpkin spice latte and let it sink to the tile. I just smiled, because I already knew exactly how his offshore accounts were about to empty into mine.

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I thought about the rainy Tuesday at Mercy General.

I thought about the pink eviction notice.

I thought about the brass key in the dusty storage unit.

None of it felt like luck.

It just felt like patience.

It felt like finally being able to breathe.

I closed my eyes and listened to the wind move through the leaves.

Tomorrow would be just like today.

And that was exactly enough.

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