![]() ![]() The occasional scream of a traffic controller’s whistle sounds above the chaos. Cars jam the streets, a nonstop trail of brake lights and honking from here all the way to Times Square. The sky beyond the cut of skyscrapers is gray, turning grayer, and in a few hours this flurry of snow will become a steady fall. So, unless I can get my hands on $3,450, I’ll be homeless and in the streets by the end of the week. ![]() Translation: I’m almost three months behind on my rent. But this morning, I’d woken up to a yellow paper taped to the door of my apartment, its words printed in the largest font you can imagine. Usually, I’m a nicer person than this-or, at least, I would have shouted an apology. ![]() I glance over my shoulder to see him waving a fist at me through his open window. “Hey!” a driver yells as I maneuver past his car. My bright, rainbow-dyed hair whips across my face. The board is old and used, like everything else I own, its blue paint almost entirely scraped off to reveal cheap silver plastic underneath-but it’s not dead yet, and when I push my heel down harder, it finally responds, jerking me forward as I squeeze between two rows of cars. Then I slam my boot down on my electric skateboard. I shiver, tug my scarf up higher over my mouth, and wipe a few snowflakes from my lashes. It’s too damn cold of a day to be out on a hunt. ![]()
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