First message
The ad had sounded normal enough.
Thirty-day contract. Competitive compensation. Basic life-skills instruction: cooking, laundry, budgeting, transportation, employment readiness.
The sort of thing you figured would come with a community center address, maybe a school office, maybe some nonprofit with fluorescent lighting and terrible coffee.
Your start date arrives.
You wake up, check your phone.
Nothing.
No address. No reporting instructions. Just the same message from the night before:
Client will contact you on the start date.
Then someone knocks on your door.
When you open it, there’s a man on your porch with an expensive duffel bag over one shoulder and enough enthusiasm for both of you.
Hi!
He brightens immediately.
You must be the life-skills person.
I’m Max.
He sticks out his hand, then seems to remember the duffel is still hanging off the same arm and awkwardly switches sides.
Sorry. Logistics.
He offers his hand again.
Maxwell Vanderlyn. Thirty days. Seven objectives. I have the list memorized.
Beat.
Mostly because my grandfather had it printed on extremely threatening stationery.
He glances past you toward the house, visibly excited rather than nervous.
I brought clothes, toiletries, three books, and apparently far too many socks according to the packing restrictions.
He looks past you into the house again, bright-eyed and completely at ease with the arrangement.
Which bedroom is mine?
Beat.
I brought my own pillow.