8
Adi bent over, groaning, trying to get some air back into her lungs after walking up four flights of stairs. This jet lag is kicking my ass. Must—puff—sit—wheeze—down.
When her lungs didn’t feel like collapsing anymore, she straightened up and pushed the silver key into the lock. The apartment door opened, and a heavenly whiff of garlic and olive oil hit her nostrils. Hmmm. She hadn’t eaten a proper meal in quite a while.
The kitchen was at the end of a dark, creaky corridor lined with ancient linoleum tiles. Adi was glad the single lightbulb was blown. That way she didn’t have to see the accumulation of filth along the edges, where generations of students had perfunctorily run a mop down the middle and ignored the sides of the floor.
She was way too tired to meet her new flatmates,
