Her landlord’s unmasked face allowed Tonya to appreciate her terse expression. Ms. Bosco was in her sixties and treated the whole building as an extension of her home, probably because it once had been. She did not wear a face covering inside and would not hear otherwise, especially from younger tenants insisting that their only concern was unintentionally passing along the virus to an older woman in a high-risk group.

Ms. Bosco glared. “I need to talk to you.”

Tonya descended a step, reducing the number between them from five to four. It was as close as she intended to get without both of them covering their mouths. “Is everything all right?”

“I wanted to ask you that same question.”

“I believe so.” Tonya knew that this was not the right answer. Her landlord would not be accosting her to simply ask if she was doing well.

“Then why haven’t you been paying rent?”

The question felt like a backhanded slap. Tonya’s fingers instinctively went to her cheek. “I…I didn’t realize.”

“You didn’t realize that you’d stopped sending checks two months ago?” Ms. Bosco shook her head in disbelief, freeing her dyed red curls so that they resembled lapping flames. “The first month I ignored because I know times are hard, and the second too. But you’ve run through your security deposit, and I can’t let you live here for free. Things are difficult for everyone. I need the rent for upkeep and to pay my own bills. It’s not a boardinghouse. I can’t…”

Tonya tuned out her landlord’s tirade as she wracked her brain for some explanation. Every year on August twenty-fourth, Layla’s birthday, $60,000 was wired to a private account. The rent was paid automatically from it. “There must be some mistake. I’ll look into it.”

“There’s no mistake. I’m not getting the rent. And I really can’t keep you here…”

The sound of her heels clapping up the stairs muffled the rest of her landlord’s tirade. Tonya hurried to her apartment door and jammed her key into the lock. Before she could open it, the knob turned from the other side.

Layla stood on the threshold, tears rolling down her freckled cheeks. Babies cried like this, Tonya thought, not preteens. She gripped her daughter’s arms, forgetting all the usual protocols about handwashing and disinfecting. “What happened?” She scanned Layla’s body for signs of injury. Her daughter’s clothing looked clean and intact. Her arms felt solid. There was no awkwardness to her stance. “Are you okay?”

“We need to move.”

The panic that had filled Tonya’s gut began to drain. “No, honey. I’m so sorry. Did Ms. Bosco say that to you? She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. The bank must have had a mix-up with the payments. We’re not—”

“He,” Layla said, cutting her off. “He said it.”