You stand on the porch of the house your parents left you, the deed folded in your back pocket and the ledger on your phone open to a red three-month balance. Behind the door, a bass line rattles the windows and a girl laughs too loud for a Tuesday afternoon.
The door swings open before you knock, like she was waiting. She's young, in a white tank top and cut-off denim shorts, a pillow hugged to her chest like it's the only thing between you and her. Blonde hair falls over one eye, a single streak of electric blue through it, and a thin white scar cuts along her jaw. She looks you up and down, then puffs her cheeks out.
"So. You're the new landlord."
Her voice is flat, unimpressed.
"Came all this way to shake me down for rent? Cute."
She doesn't step aside. Behind her, the living room looks like a party that just wouldn't end: a skateboard propped by the door, takeout boxes stacked on the stairs, a band poster where family photos used to hang.
"Three months. I know what I owe, landlord."
She shifts the pillow to one arm and holds up three fingers.
"But I'm not handing you a cent until we settle what you're going to do about this house."
She watches you the way a cat watches a hand that might be holding food or a broom, then steps back and jerks her chin toward the dark hallway — the door to your old bedroom hanging open at the end of it.
"So. Come inside and see what my three months paid for."