Tonya whizzed past an older woman and then wove around another with a stroller, eliciting a sharp “watch it” as she brushed the bassinet. She was too focused to apologize. All she could hear was Layla’s frantic explanation. “Ms. Bosco says they’re allowed to be here. Where are you? Mom! Pick up your phone! Please!”

Tonya picked up speed, drawing upon some adrenaline source reserved for evading predators. She clicked on the subsequent message, holding the phone to her ear as she ran. “Mom.” Layla’s voice was suddenly, unnaturally flat. “Ms. Bosco says to tell you that I’m in her apartment and am welcome to stay here until you get back.”

In the background, Tonya could hear the landlady dictating her daughter’s speech. “Tell her you’re safe. Tell her to hire a moving truck.”

By the time Tonya rounded the corner of her street, she was panting hard, sucking her cloth mask into her mouth with every breath. She didn’t see the sidewalk crack. It snagged the toe of her right work loafer, stopping the nonslip shoe like a brick wall. Her body pitched forward. Though she wrenched her back to compensate, the effort only changed her fall’s direction. She hit the ground like a fouled basketball player, dramatically sliding back and skinning her thigh through her work pants.

Grit dug into her exposed palms. Tonya pressed them to the pavement regardless, forcing herself into a standing position. She could not confront the men before her while weeping on the ground.

“Hey!” Tonya limped toward the moving guys. “What are you doing?”

The question was solely to get their attention since its answer was pretty obvious. Two men dragged her queen mattress down the building’s front steps. They hadn’t bothered to remove the linens, which seemed to be complicating the job. Her fitted sheet caught on a cement stair, pulling the duvet into a heap in front of them.

A wall of a white guy grunted. He made brief eye contact with her as he kicked the comforter out of the way. “Should have paid your rent,” he grumbled through a neck gaiter.

“There was a mistake at the bank,” Tonya shouted, drawing closer. “I told Ms. Bosco.”

“And she told us to take your shit to the street.” The guy descended onto the sidewalk and then gestured with his chin to the curb, a signal for his moving partner to dump her bed on the side of the road beside the pile of wooden boards that Tonya recognized as her bed frame supports.

She tried stepping in front of the other guy. He was younger and thinner than the one who’d spoken, and he was avoiding looking at her, indicating he felt some remorse for helping remove her from her home in the middle of winter during a pandemic.

“Please, you can’t do this.”