Ronda did not know how long she sat on the edge of her bed after writing that line in her notebook.
The transfer notice remained beside her.
Folded.
Ordinary-looking.
Cruel in the way official papers often were.
She kept staring at it as if the words might rearrange themselves into something kinder if she was patient enough. They didn’t. The room stayed warm. The fan stayed noisy. Outside, the neighborhood continued in its usual indifferent way; laughter, a motorcycle passing too fast, someone arguing over money as if money had ever needed help being difficult.
Nothing changed.
And yet something had.
Because tonight, for the first time since the firm had started pressing its hand more firmly against her life, she was not going home only to endure.
She was going to choose something
