The moment my ex-husband’s lawyer pointed at the faded stain on my eight-year-old son’s shirt,

Mr. Henderson was seventy-two, owned three commercial properties on the block, and smelled permanently of rye flour and furnace oil. He was not a cruel man, but he was a man who hated complications above all else in the universe.

As soon as my Civic rolled into the alley, he crushed his cigarette out beneath his work boot and crossed his arms over his stained canvas vest.

“Elena,” he said before I had even killed the ignition.

I stepped out of the car, gesturing for Mom to keep Toby inside for a moment. “Mr. Henderson. What’s going on?”

He pointed a thick, flour-dusted thumb at the yellow placard on the glass door. “City code enforcement was here an hour ago. Someone called the municipal building authority, claiming the second-floor residential unit has an illegal sub-panel, inadequate fire egress, and an active bedbug infestation.”

My jaw dropped. “Bedbugs? Fire egress? Mr. Henderson, you were in our apartment two weeks ago to fix the radiator pipe! You know there are no bedbugs!”

“I know that, and you know that,” Henderson said, his voice raspy from decades of flour dust and tobacco. “The city inspector didn’t know that until he climbed up there with a flashlight while your mama was gone. He didn’t find no bugs, thank God, but he did notice that the secondary exit through the pantry window doesn't meet the current fire safety clearance because of that old fire escape rust.”

“Russell,” I whispered, the name tasting like ash on my tongue.

“I don't care if it was your ex-husband, the governor, or Santa Claus,” Henderson said, rubbing his temple. “They issued a thirty-day notice to remediate the exterior fire escape ironwork, or the unit gets tagged as uninhabitable. Remediating that ironwork costs six thousand dollars, Elena. I don’t have six thousand dollars lying around for an ironworker right before winter.”

“You’re going to evict us?” The ground seemed to tilt beneath my feet.

“I didn't say that,” Henderson grumbled, though he wouldn't look me in the eye. “I’m saying if the city condemns the second-floor egress on November thirtieth, nobody can live up there. Legally. And I got two other calls today, Elena.”

“From who?”

“Some legal assistant claiming to represent Mercer Capital. Asking about lease compliance, asking if your mother was an unauthorized long-term occupant under section four of our agreement, hinting that if I was harboring an illegal boarding situation, my building insurance could be voided.”

He looked at me then, his rheumy gray eyes heavy with genuine regret. “I like you, Elena. You pay on time, even if it’s twenty-dollar bills from diner tips. But I can’t lose my building insurance over your divorce. I’m an old man. I can’t fight high-priced lawyers.”

“Mom’s not an illegal boarder,” I pleaded, my voice cracking. “She’s Toby’s grandmother! She helps me watch him while I work!”

“Fix it, Elena,” Henderson said, turning back toward the bakery entrance. “Talk to your people. Get this lawyer off my back, and figure out what the city wants with that window. Otherwise, come December first, you and the boy are gonna have to find somewhere else to sleep.”

He pushed open the bakery door, the little brass bell chiming merrily overhead, leaving me standing on the cracked pavement with the cold wind biting through my thin blazer.

The door of the Civic clicked open. Toby stepped out, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his silver-moon shirt fluttering in the breeze. He walked over to me, took my freezing hand, and looked up at the yellow placard.

“Does that paper mean we have to pack our boxes again?” he asked quietly.

That question shattered whatever remaining composure I had. When Toby was six, right after Russell walked out, we had moved three times in four months—bouncing between short-term sublets, a friend’s basement, and finally this apartment above the bakery. Toby had learned to associate cardboard boxes with chaos, tears, and cold rooms.

I knelt down in front of him, right there on the sidewalk in full view of Main Street, and took his small face between my hands.

“No, Toby,” I said, making sure my voice was firm, steady, and clear. “We are not packing boxes. We live here. This is our home. Nobody is taking it from us.”

“Promise?” he whispered.

“I promise,” I lied.

Because as I stood up and looked at that bright yellow municipal notice, I had no idea where I was going to find six thousand dollars, how I was going to stop Russell from calling every inspector in the state of New Hampshire, or how a single mother with an eighty-four-dollar bank balance was going to survive a war against a man with an unlimited legal budget.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

I pulled it out, expecting another venomous text from Russell or a frantic message from my boss at the diner. Instead, the screen displayed an unknown Concord area code.

I answered with a dry throat. “Hello?”

“Ms. Elena Vance?” a crisp, low woman’s voice asked.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“My name is Clara Vance,” the voice replied. “No relation, though I find the coincidence charming. I’m the director of the Granite State Child Advocacy Project. Judge Patricia Harrison just called my private cell from her chambers.”

I froze. “The judge called you?”

“Judge Harrison doesn't like bullies, Ms. Vance,” Clara Vance said smoothly. “And she particularly dislikes wealthy executives who attempt to turn her courtroom into an extortion racket. She informed me that you represented yourself pro se this morning, that you won an interim order, and that your ex-husband’s attorney is Benedict Welch. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” I breathed, clutching the phone so hard the plastic creaked.

“Good,” the woman said. “Because Benedict Welch has been my professional punching bag for fifteen years. Are you at your apartment?”

“I’m standing on the sidewalk outside.”