The group chat blinked red at the top of her phone: "The Wrights." It was supposed to be a small comfort—a home thread she could toss a bad day into and someone would toss a joke back. Tonight, it was a loud, useless siren. Kaelyn thumbed the message box, then deleted it. Her bank app refused to load past the spinning circle. Her stomach made a sound like a small animal. She typed anyway. "Account empty. Can anyone—" She stopped. The thought of asking for money, of dragging her problems into that gilded room with filtered smiles, made her fingers clench. She imagined the comments—Lincoln's practical advice, Val's careful emojis, some distant cousin's stock tip. She hit send. The message slid into the chat with the familiar little swoosh of entitlement. A minute later a delivery bag thudded against her door. The building smelled of diesel and pizza grease; someone downstairs played an acoustic version of a pop song loudly enough to make her head ache. Kaelyn opened the door and there it was: a thin plastic bag, condensation fogging the sides, three red apples like little stoplights. A sticky note: "Eat. —Dad." She should have laughed. Instead, something hot and impossible lodged behind her ribs. She brought the bag to her chest like contraband and sat on the edge of her bed, knees cold through the thin denim of her jeans. Her wallet lay on the counter—empty except for a library card and