“I can hear it in my room.” “Your room . . .” “Live upstairs, babe.” “Stop calling me that!” I drop the rolling pin down on the metal bakery table, my heart rate still high, but either I’m becoming numb to it or understanding is hitting me. I’m out of imminent danger, I think, but now stepping into a different danger. “I live upstairs,” I say, because I do. I just moved in the last of my stuff yesterday. “Looks like I’m your new neighbor.” The world stops. The ringing starts in my ears. My gut falls to the ground. That would be my luck, wouldn’t it? Day one of New Lola is going just dandy.
