Maya Chen jolted awake to the sound of aggressive pounding on her apartment door. The digital clock on her nightstand glowed an unforgiving 6:47 AM, and her heart immediately began racing with the kind of dread that had become her constant companion over the past few months.
"Open up! I know you're in there!"
The voice belonged to Mr. Peterson, her landlord, and Maya's stomach dropped to somewhere around her ankles. She knew exactly why he was here.
Throwing on a robe over her oversized sleep shirt, Maya padded across the tiny studio apartment that had been her home for the past three years. Medical bills covered her small dining table like confetti from the world's most depressing party, and her mother's prescription medications lined the windowsill like expensive little soldiers mocking her bank account.
She opened the door to find Mr. Peterson's weathered face twisted into his usual scowl, a legal document clutched in his meaty fist.
"Ms. Chen." His tone was all business, no sympathy. "Three months behind on rent. Here's your eviction notice."
The paper felt heavier than it should have as Maya accepted it with steady hands. Her mind raced through calculations she'd already done a hundred times. Rent was $1,200. She had $847 in her checking account. Her credit cards were maxed out. Her mother's next chemotherapy session was scheduled for Friday.
"Mr. Peterson, I understand you need the money, but—"
"Three days," he interrupted, his breath smelling like coffee and disappointment. "Pay up or pack up. I've got a waiting list of people who can actually afford this place."
Maya nodded, keeping her expression neutral even as her world crumbled a little more. She'd learned long ago that showing weakness only invited more cruelty.
"I understand. Thank you for letting me know."
Mr. Peterson studied her face, perhaps expecting tears or begging. When he found neither, he grunted and walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing in the narrow hallway like gunshots.
Maya closed the door and leaned against it, the eviction notice crumpling in her fist like her dreams of a normal life. Three days. She had three days to come up with $3,600 or she'd be homeless. With a mother in the hospital fighting cancer.
The irony wasn't lost on her that she needed to get ready for a job she probably wouldn't have much longer anyway.
---
Two hours later, Maya sat in the sterile conference room at Pinnacle Communications, her hands folded in her lap as Janet Sterling, her supervisor, shuffled through papers with the enthusiasm of someone about to put down a sick animal.
"Maya, I'm afraid we have to let you go."
The words hit her like a physical blow, even though she'd been expecting them. Budget cuts had been whispered about for weeks, and Maya knew she was the newest hire, which made her the most expendable.
"But the Henderson campaign just launched successfully because of my strategy," Maya said, proud that her voice remained steady. "The client specifically requested—"
"I know, and your work has been... adequate," Janet interrupted, not meeting Maya's eyes. "But the company has decided to restructure. Your position is being eliminated effective immediately."
Adequate. Three months of sixty-hour weeks, innovative campaigns that brought in two new major clients, and staying late every night to cover for Janet's mistakes, and her work was adequate.
"I see." Maya straightened in her chair. "What about severance?"
Janet's laugh was sharp and humorless. "Severance? You've only been here eight months. Besides, technically you're still in your probationary period."
Maya felt heat rise in her cheeks but kept her voice level. "My probationary period ended three months ago."
"Security will escort you to your desk to collect your things," Janet continued as if Maya hadn't spoken. "Your final paycheck will be direct deposited on Friday."
Friday. The same day as her mother's chemo appointment. The appointment that cost $800 out of pocket even with their bare-bones insurance.
Maya stood slowly, gathering what was left of her dignity around her like armor. "Thank you for the opportunity."
The walk to her desk felt like a perp walk. Conversations stopped as she passed, her coworkers suddenly finding their computer screens fascinating. Maya had considered some of these people friends–had grabbed drinks with them after work, listened to their relationship problems, covered their shifts when they were sick.
None of them met her eyes now.
She packed her few personal items into a cardboard box that had once held printer paper—a small succulent her mother had given her, a photo of them at Maya's college graduation, and a coffee mug that read "World's Okayest Employee." The mug felt particularly prophetic now.
Security—a bored-looking guard named Tony who'd always been friendly—waited by her desk with obvious discomfort.
"Sorry about this, Maya," he said quietly. "You were one of the good ones."
"Thanks, Tony." She managed a smile. "Take care of yourself."
The elevator ride to the ground floor felt eternal. Maya stared at her reflection in the polished steel doors—twenty-five years old, marketing degree from State University, two years of experience, and now unemployed with a dying mother and three days until eviction.
She looked exactly like what she was: a woman who was running out of options.
---
St. Mary's Hospital smelled like disinfectant and false hope. Maya had memorized every detail of the oncology wing over the past six months—the cheerful but tired nurses, the motivational posters that felt more like mockery, the families huddled in waiting rooms with the same shell-shocked expressions she probably wore.
Room 314 had become Maya's second home. Her mother, Mrs. Chen, was propped up in the hospital bed, looking smaller and more fragile than she had yesterday. But her eyes still sparkled with the fierce intelligence that had raised Maya single-handedly after her father disappeared when Maya was twelve.
"There's my hardworking girl," Mrs. Chen said in Mandarin, her voice weak but warm. "You look tired. Are you eating enough?"
Maya forced a smile and switched to English, knowing the nurses appreciated being able to understand their conversations. "I'm fine, Mama. How are you feeling today?"
"Oh, you know, like I've been hit by a truck carrying smaller trucks," Mrs. Chen joked, but her attempt at humor couldn't hide the pain in her eyes. "But Dr. Martinez says the new treatment is showing promise."
As if summoned by her name, Dr. Martinez appeared in the doorway. She was a kind woman in her forties with gentle eyes and the sort of calm competence that made families trust her with their most precious treasures.
"Maya, could I speak with you for a moment?"
Maya's heart clenched, but she nodded and followed the doctor into the hallway.
"Your mother is responding well to the current treatment," Dr. Martinez began, and Maya felt a rush of relief. "But we need to discuss the next phase."
And there it was—the "but" that Maya had been dreading.
"There's a new therapy that could significantly improve her prognosis," Dr. Martinez continued. "It's not covered by your insurance, but the results we've seen in similar cases are very encouraging."
Maya's mouth went dry. "How much?"
"Fifteen thousand upfront, then approximately three thousand per month for six months."
The numbers hit Maya like physical blows. Fifteen thousand dollars. She had eight hundred and forty-seven dollars in her checking account and had just lost her job.
"I... I need some time to figure out the financing," Maya managed.
Dr. Martinez's expression softened with understanding. "Of course. But Maya, time is a factor here. We'd ideally like to start within the next two weeks."
Two weeks. Maya nodded numbly and returned to her mother's room, schooling her features into what she hoped looked like optimism.
"What did Dr. Martinez say?" Mrs. Chen asked, her eyes too knowing.
"Just discussing treatment options," Maya said, taking her mother's hand. The skin felt paper-thin and cold despite the warm room. "Everything's going to be fine."
Mrs. Chen squeezed her fingers weakly. "Maya, baby, you know you can tell me anything, right? If there are problems with money—"
"There are no problems," Maya lied smoothly. "I want you to focus on getting better. That's all that matters."
But her mother's eyes—the same dark brown eyes Maya saw in the mirror every morning—were filled with worry that had nothing to do with her own illness.
---
Maya's apartment felt even smaller when she returned that evening, the walls seeming to press in from all sides. She sat at her tiny dining table, surrounded by bills and medical statements, and tried to make the math work.
It didn't. No matter how she calculated, stretched, or reorganized, the numbers painted the same impossible picture.
Rent: $3,600 (three months behind plus current)
Mother's treatment: $15,000 upfront
Monthly expenses: $2,200 (food, utilities, phone, insurance, medications)
Current assets: $847
She opened her laptop and scrolled through job listings, but everything required experience she didn't have or paid barely above minimum wage. Her inbox showed forty-seven rejection emails from applications she'd submitted over the past month.
Maya pulled out her phone and, in a moment of desperate hope, dialed her father's old number. The automated message was the same as always: "This number has been disconnected."
Thirteen years since he'd walked out, claiming he needed "space to find himself." He'd found space, all right—space far away from any responsibility to his wife and daughter.
Maya allowed herself exactly five minutes to cry. She timed it on her phone, letting the tears fall silently while her shoulders shook. When the timer went off, she wiped her face, took a deep breath, and stood up.
Crying wouldn't save her mother. Feeling sorry for herself wouldn't pay the rent. She needed a plan, even if it was a desperate one.
Maya walked to her bedroom closet and pulled out her one good dress—a simple black number she'd bought for job interviews. She'd worn it to exactly three interviews in the past month, each one ending in polite rejection.
Tonight, she'd wear it for something different.
She applied makeup carefully, using techniques she'd learned from YouTube videos when she couldn't afford professional makeup lessons. Foundation to even out her complexion, mascara to make her dark eyes look larger, lipstick in a shade called "Confidence" that she'd bought during more optimistic times.
In her dresser drawer, buried under old college sweatshirts, she found her emergency fund—a crumpled fifty-dollar bill hidden in an old shoebox. It was meant for true emergencies, and if losing her job, facing eviction, and needing fifteen thousand dollars for her mother's life-saving treatment didn't qualify, nothing would.
Maya looked at herself in the cracked mirror that had come with the apartment. She looked like a woman trying very hard to hold herself together, which was exactly what she was.
"One drink," she told her reflection. "One night to forget. Tomorrow I'll figure out how to save my mother."
She grabbed her purse—a practical black bag that had seen better years—and tucked the fifty-dollar bill into the inner pocket along with her expired college ID that still worked at some bars if the bouncer didn't look too closely.
As she locked her apartment door, Maya didn't know that she was closing the door on more than just her tiny studio. She was about to step into a night that would change everything—her life, her future, and her heart.
The upscale bar called Midnight was only six blocks away, but it might as well have been on another planet from her usual world. Tonight, though, Maya Chen was going to drink expensive alcohol and pretend, for just a few hours, that she was the kind of woman who belonged in such places.
After all, what was the worst that could happen?