The fluorescent lights of the unemployment office hummed, casting a sickly yellow glow on the already faded posters. I slid the broken door open, the sound a tired groan, and stepped into a room that, despite its vibrant yellow splashes, felt like a cage.

"Appointment for Tikera Copeland." I leaned against the desk, forcing a smile that felt brittle even to me. The secretary, a woman whose face seemed permanently etched into a frown, swirled in her chair, her eyes flicking from me to her computer screen. She clicked, tapped her nails, and then, without looking up, stated, "Take a seat, Mrs. Davis will see you soon."

I sighed, glancing over my shoulder. Of course. The only available chair was wedged between a man who smelled like he'd bathed in stale cigarettes and an elderly woman audibly lamenting her doctor's latest pronouncement. Could the world just swallow me whole already?

Before I could navigate the human obstacles, the door to Mrs. Davis's office creaked open. "Tikera Copeland," she called, her voice as flat as a forgotten soda. Relief, sharp and sudden, cut through my dread. I walked in, took the seat opposite her, and braced myself.