I knocked on Mr. Harlan's door, my heart pounding in my chest. Rent was due two weeks ago, and my student loans had left me scraping by on ramen and odd jobs. The apartment complex was quiet that evening, the summer heat making everything sticky and oppressive. I smoothed down my tank top and shorts—nothing fancy, just what I threw on after class—and waited, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
The door creaked open after a long pause, but it wasn't Mr. Harlan greeting me. Instead, I heard a low grunt from inside, and curiosity—or desperation—pushed me to peek through the widening gap. The living room came into view: dim lamps casting shadows over worn furniture, a TV flickering silently in the corner. And there, on the sagging couch, was my landlord—pants around his ankles, his
