CHAPTER 1 — Three Alarms

Some people woke up to birds.

Some people woke up to sunshine.

Irene Potter woke up to three alarms because experience had taught her that one alarm believed in optimism, two believed in second chances, and three understood who she really was.

The first screamed at 5:45.

The second joined in at 5:47.

The third, scheduled for 5:50 because the first two had a long and embarrassing history of being ignored, finally won.

Irene reached out from beneath her blanket, slapped her phone until the noise stopped, and lay still for another five seconds.

Then she rolled out of bed before her brain could file an appeal.

The apartment was dark except for the glow from the microwave clock in the kitchen. It was a one-bedroom if you were feeling generous. If you weren't, it was a room with another smaller room attached to it.

It was clean, and not because Irene loved cleaning, but because she was almost never home long enough to make it messy.

The kitchen was narrow enough that opening the refrigerator while standing in front of the sink required planning ahead. The window looked directly into the apartment building next door.

She could probably learn her neighbor's morning routine if she ever had time to stare out the glass. She didn't.

Her rent was seven hundred and forty dollars a month. It was the cheapest thing in her budget.

Before she even brushed her teeth, she crossed the apartment to the tank sitting on the windowsill.

"Morning," Mr. Mustard floated near the surface like he'd been expecting her.

Mr. Mustard was a red-eared slider turtle with exactly one talent: consistency.

For three years Mr. Mustard never once surprised Irene—never left, never asked for money, and never got drunk. He simply waited where she'd left him, accepted breakfast with quiet dignity, and blinked at her from the water.

She dropped his pellets into the tank. "You've got life figured out."

Mr. Mustard blinked once. Irene took that as agreement.

By six-fifteen she was dressed, hair tied back, coffee in a travel mug she'd owned since college, and walking toward the bus stop. The sky was still dark.

The bus came three minutes late. She climbed aboard, tapped her transit card, and took her usual seat by the window.

This was where she did math. Not because she enjoyed it, but because if she didn't keep doing it, everything fell apart.

Rent, utilities, Bella's school fees, Amanda's rehab, bus fare, groceries, and the cheap detergent she'd bought two days ago because the old bottle had finally given up.

Last week's paychecks from the convenience store and the coffee shop, plus the cleaning job she'd work over the weekend. The numbers never actually balanced—they just almost did.

Four years ago that would've scared her. Now it was simply Tuesday.

The coffee shop smelled like roasted beans and cinnamon by the time she walked in. Blythe Palmer was already behind the counter.

And Blythe somehow arrived everywhere early and talking.

"Morning!" she called before Irene had both feet inside. "I had the weirdest dream."

Irene hung her bag in the back room. "I believe you."

"There was a goat."

"I definitely believe you."

"And somehow Ryan Gosling was my dentist."

Irene paused.

"...That's honestly less weird than the goat."

Blythe laughed loud enough for the espresso machine to sound jealous.

"You know what? Fair."

They slipped into their routine without thinking about it.

Aprons on, machines warming, pastries arranged, and coffee grinding.

The morning rush arrived right on schedule. Office workers, students, construction crews. People who smiled before seven in the morning. Irene had questions about those people. Mostly medical ones.

By nine-thirty the line finally thinned.

Blythe leaned against the counter. "So."

Irene kept wiping down the espresso machine. "So?"

"How are you?"

"Fine."

Blythe gave her a look. It wasn't an accusing look. Or a disappointed one. It was simply the look of someone who'd known Irene for two years and had learned that fine usually meant please don't make me unpack my life before lunch.

"Okay," Blythe said. That was all. She let it go. Which was one of the reasons Irene liked her.

Her phone buzzed in her apron pocket around ten-thirty.

Bella.

Irene answered while restocking lids. "Hey."

"Irene." That tone. "I need a favor."

"How expensive is it?"

Bella gasped. "You always think I'm asking for money."

Irene waited.

"...Three hundred," Bella sighed dramatically. "It's for a school trip."

"What kind of trip?"

"A weekend thing."

"What happens there?"

"I don't know. School stuff."

"You don't know?"

"My friends are going."

That explained absolutely nothing.

"I need new luggage too," Bella continued before Irene could answer. "My suitcase is embarrassing. It makes me look poor."

Irene closed her eyes for one second. "Bell."

"Please."

"I don't have three hundred."

Silence, then the sniffing followed. It wasn’t fake crying, but real crying. Unfortunately, Irene could tell the difference. The fake crying annoyed her. The real crying made her feel like the worst sister alive.

"I just..." Bella sniffed. "Everyone else is going. I don't want to be left out. So can you?"

Irene looked down at the stack of paper cups in front of her. She already knew the answer before Bella finished asking.

"I'll see what I can do."

"When?"

No, thank you.

"When?"

Irene looked out through the front window of the coffee shop. Cars rolled past. People hurried by carrying coffees she'd probably made.

"I'll let you know."

Bella hung up. No goodbye. She rarely said goodbye either.

The shift crawled toward afternoon.

Then Irene caught another bus across town to her second job.

The convenience store wasn't great, but it paid. That qualified it as one of the better parts of her life.

By the time her shift ended, the sky had already gone dark. She stood at the bus stop under a flickering streetlight. Her banking app was already open.

She stared at the screen for several seconds.

Three hundred wasn't possible. One hundred fifty wasn't either, though. But it was closer.

She transferred the money. The notification appeared almost instantly.

Transfer complete.

Her available balance dropped. She watched the number change. Then kept staring after it stopped changing.

There wasn't really anything to think about. So she didn't.

The bus arrived and she climbed on.

By the time Irene reached her apartment building, her feet hurt enough that taking the stairs felt like a bonus challenge that day for her.

She unlocked the door and then pushed it open.

Then she stopped.

There was an envelope lying just inside. It was plain white, no stamp, no name, and no return address. Just a sealed envelope that definitely hadn't been there when she'd left that morning.

She bent down and picked it up. It wasn't heavy. She turned it over once.

Mr. Mustard watched her from his tank as she walked into the apartment.

"Don't start," she told him and set the envelope on the counter beside his tank.

Then she stood there. Looking at it . . .