Then she asked, “Are you going to tell Harlan?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m voting on his project.”
“You can need help and still think.”
“My mother literally wrote that.”
“Then maybe listen to her.”
I did.
Just not in the way Tasha expected.
That afternoon I called Detroit’s tenant assistance office.
They reviewed the notice.
My landlord had followed the rules.
I owed six weeks of rent.
No villain.
No conspiracy.
Just arithmetic.
The caseworker helped me work out a repayment proposal.
My landlord agreed to give me thirty days if I could make a partial payment by Friday.
It was still difficult.
But difficulty felt different when it had numbers.
Numbers could be faced.
At the Meridian that evening, Harlan noticed I was distracted.
He did not ask why.
Instead he slid a folder toward me.
“What’s this?”
“The independent review you requested.”
I opened it.
