Police knock at the front door.

The lock is picked.

“Sheriff’s Office!”

I scurry to the bathroom and press into the far left corner. If he opens fire, I’ll be out of range.

This will be Eviction Number Four, in the two years I’ve lived here.

The first eviction seemed legitimate. A couple, young, brash, drug-riddled, constantly assaulting each other. I didn’t report them but I’m sure old Miss Doris did. The second was weird. She was a God-fearing woman, who adorned her door knock with a small, wooden plaque, the word “Faith” carved in beautiful cursive. I never saw her, nor heard her. Just the one moment in time, walking up the stairs after running errands, seeing a large woman with sad eyes and quiet voice tell the landlord, “I thought she paid this time.” She was gone before the week was over.

The third was a disappointment. A…