She looked at three strangers a nonprofit sent and picked the tired one and slowly, against every rule she’d taped inside her own cabinet, decided to keep her.

And I chose Enid — chose to stay when I could afford to go, chose an old woman’s biscuits and a creaking stair over a place of my own with a door that locked, because it turned out the door that locked was never what I’d been priced out of.

What I’d been priced out of was people.

Belonging.

A place where someone set a cup down for me on purpose.

You cannot buy that at any rent, and you cannot inherit it, and no facility provides it and no salary secures it.