The afternoon sun hung low, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement outside Noel's house. She sat on the front steps, still in yesterday's clothes, clutching her mother's note like a lifeline. The jazz record had stopped spinning hours ago. Her thoughts were static.
Then she heard it.
The low rumble of a tow truck.
She looked up.
It was backing into her driveway—slow, deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey. The driver stepped out, clipboard in hand, sunglasses reflecting the house she'd grown up in. He didn't look cruel. Just tired. Just doing his job.
Noel's heart dropped.
"No," she whispered, standing too fast. "No, no, no—please."
She ran to the Jeep Compass parked at the curb, her boots slapping the pavement. "Please don't take it," she begged, voice cracking. "I just lost my job yesterday. I'm trying to figure things out. Please."
The repo man didn't flinch. He walked calmly to the driver's side, checking the VIN.
"Sorry ma'am," he said, not unkindly. "But you missed four payments."
Noel's knees buckled. She grabbed the side mirror, holding on like it could anchor her to something solid.
"I know," she sobbed. "I know I did. But I was gonna catch up. I swear. I just needed a little more time."
He sighed, glancing at the clipboard again. "I get it. I do. But I can't override the order. It's already logged."
She stepped in front of the truck, arms outstretched. "Please. This car is all I have. I use it to get groceries. To get to work—when I had work. I have interviews lined up. I swear."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then gently stepped around her.
"I'm sorry."
The tow truck's winch groaned as it lifted the Jeep's front wheels off the ground. Noel watched, helpless, as the tires left the pavement. Her reflection in the window looked like someone else—someone broken, someone begging.
She dropped to her knees.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, hot and relentless. Her fists clenched in her lap. Her breath came in gasps.
"I've been trying," she whispered. "I've been trying so hard."
The repo man climbed back into the truck. He didn't look back.
The Jeep Compass—her last piece of mobility, her last thread of independence—was pulled away slowly, disappearing down the block like a chapter closing.
Noel sat on the curb, arms wrapped around herself, rocking gently.
She had no savings. No job. No car. A $0 bank balance. And a house full of memories that couldn't pay the bills.
The city moved on around her—buses groaned, kids laughed, someone played music down the street. But Noel sat in silence, her world shrinking to the space between her knees and the pavement.
She didn't know what came next.
But she knew she couldn't stay here forever.