When my marriage ended, I had a four-year-old daughter, eleven hundred dollars, and a car that only started if you turned the key twice.
The apartment I found was a converted garage behind an old blue house on Palmer Street. It had one bedroom, a kitchen the size of a closet, and a window over the sink that looked out at somebody else’s tomato plants.
The landlord met me in the driveway.
His name was Mr. Alvarez.
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