By the time the bus slammed to a halt at the bottom of the mountain terminal, the dashboard clock read 3:51 PM.
Nine minutes. I had exactly nine minutes to pull off the transition.
I stepped off the transit bus into the suffocating, heavy heat of the valley. The scent of hot asphalt, old grease, and sulfur from the nearby rail yards hit me instantly, a brutal reminder of where my nights belonged. I ran the three blocks to our apartment building, my stiff uniform shoes thudding against the cracked concrete of the avenue. My lungs burned from the sudden shift in air quality, but I didn't slow down.
I took the tenement stairs three at a time, the wooden steps creaking violently under my weight, before bursting through our front door.
The apartment was empty, the quiet rooms smelling faint
