The coin landed tails. My roommate—my friend of six years—got the lease and the security deposit. I got my clothes in two trash bags and a rain-warped paperback I’d left on the windowsill.
I drove south until the signs turned Spanish. Found a studio above a laundromat that smelled like bleach and somebody else’s life.
At the legal aid office, night shift, I sorted intake forms by the glow of a humming fluorescent light. The other paralegal, Elena, brought me coffee without asking.
Second week, she said, 'You look like you’re still packing.' I didn’t tell her the coin flip story. But she saw the paperback on my desk, the pages swollen, and she didn’t ask.
One night she offered me a ride home because the bus stopped running at midnight. I said yes. That was the first time I let someone help me.
The coin flip took my home. Elena gave me a way to start looking for a new one.