The pile of mail on the table was nauseating to me. Although, everything in the small NYC apartment I rented nauseated me ever since my roommate died when a Stanger poured acid on the both of us. I couldn't cover rent without her, and somewhere in the pile of mail there was likely an eviction notice. Somewhere else in the pile, there might be a response to the letter I had sent my great grandmother. I hadn't spoken to my rich family in eight years, and although I felt bad about it, I needed to reach out now because I was about to be on the streets. It's not like I didn't miss them, it's just that they had kicked me out and I had tried to convince myself i was fine with just me and Amy.