“Time’s up, Rebecca,” my landlord Rick said, standing behind the wall of bikers. “These gentlemen are here to move your stuff to the curb. You’ve got ten minutes to grab what you want to keep.”
My daughter Sofia started crying. My son Michael grabbed my pajama pants so tight I could feel his little fingernails through the fabric. I’d been expecting this day for weeks, but I’d prayed for a miracle that never came.
“Please,” I begged Rick. “Just one more week. My first paycheck comes Friday. I can pay you half of what I owe.”
“You said that last month. And the month before.” Rick wouldn’t even look at me. “I’ve got thirty guys here at fifty bucks each to clear this place. It’s happening today.”
The lead biker stepped forward. He was massive—probably 6’4″, gray beard down to his chest, arms covered in military tattoos. His vest had “Marcus” and “President” on the patches.
“Ma’am, we need you to step aside,” he said. His voice was deep but not unkind. “We’ve got a job to do.”
Michael suddenly ran forward and wrapped his arms around the biker’s leg. “Please don’t take our home! Please! My daddy’s gone and my mommy tries so hard! Please!”
Marcus looked down at my seven-year-old clutching his leg. Then he looked at Sofia in my arms, her face buried in my shoulder. Then his eyes went past me into our apartment.
