Nowhere in those fourteen pages did it say where I was supposed to sleep.

By two o’clock I had four cardboard boxes sitting on a sidewalk in Bridgeport and a key to a one-bedroom apartment over a bakery.

Twelve hundred dollars a month.

The bakery door had been propped open with a brick, and the whole street smelled like yeast and warm crust.

“You must be the one with the boxes,” the man said.

He had flour on his forearm and a pencil tucked behind his ear.