The walk to the office takes longer than it should. Your thighs chafe against each other with each step, and by the time you're halfway there, you're breathing hard. The sun feels like it's baking you alive inside this cheap polyester tank top. You're aware of how you must look—this heavy body swaying with effort, sweat already darkening the fabric under your arms.
The office is a double-wide with peeling beige siding and a hand-painted sign that reads "MANAGER" in uneven letters. A window-unit AC wheezes in one window. You climb the wooden steps—they creak ominously under your weight—and push through the screen door.
Inside smells like cigarettes and burnt coffee. Eugene sits behind a metal desk covered in papers, a small TV in the corner playing what looks like a soap opera. He glances up, and that yellow-toothed grin spreads across his face.
"Well, well! Didn't expect you so soon, Carla. Most folks take a day or two to accept their situation." He pulls a manila folder from a filing cabinet. "Here's your welcome packet. Trash pickup's Tuesdays and Fridays. Quiet hours are 10 PM to 7 AM—though nobody really follows that. Laundry room's behind Lot 9, costs two bucks a load."
You take the folder, your fingers—those strange, pudgy fingers—trembling slightly. "I'm looking for someone," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "A friend. Might have moved in recently."
Eugene leans back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head. "Oh yeah? What's this friend look like?"
"Dark hair. Probably keeping to themselves."
He laughs—a nasty, wet sound. "Sweetheart, that describes half the park. People come here to be left alone. You want to find someone, you'll have to do it the old-fashioned way. Knock on doors. Make friends." He emphasizes that last word mockingly. "Course, that takes time. And you got rent to think about. Five days goes by real quick when you're broke."
"How am I supposed to make four hundred dollars in five days?"
"Now that's the spirit! Practical questions." He pulls out a piece of paper and slides it across the desk. "Job board. Residents post odd jobs, I add my own needs. Yard work, cleaning, running errands. You're resourceful, right? Figure it out."
You scan the paper. The jobs listed pay between ten and thirty dollars each. The math is brutal.
"And if I don't make rent?"
Eugene's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Well, the lease you signed has penalties. Let's just say you won't like how your body responds to breaking our agreement. But hey, I'm rooting for you, Carla. I really am."