Chap­ter 1 begins with a gray sky stretched low over the city, rain mist­ing the wind­shield as I dri­ve toward the gates of Thorn­field Estates. It’s a rou­tine trip now—leave behind the cracked side­walks and water-stained ceil­ings of Cen­ter Point, and step into a neigh­bor­hood where even the air feels clean­er. The rain pelts hard­er as I pull into the Reeds’ cir­cu­lar dri­ve, the kind of place designed more for show than for need. Mrs. Reed greets me at the door, hair immac­u­late­ly curled, lips paint­ed to match her umbrel­la, and the prac­ticed pout she gives when she glances at the sky is sup­posed to seem sym­pa­thet­ic.

I accept Bear’s leash with a prac­ticed smile, lis­ten­ing to her sigh about how dread­ful the weath­er must be “for peo­ple like you,” while wear­ing boots that have nev­er touched actu­al mud. This is what I’ve learned to expect here—concern wrapped in con­de­scen­sion, kind­ness that nev­er asks ques­tions. As Bear trots out ahead, I cinch my old rain­coat tighter and step into the storm. Thorn­field Estates gleams behind me, every home pris­tine, every hedge man­i­cured, but it all feels as staged as a show­room.

Walk­ing past each sprawl­ing prop­er­ty, it becomes clear that the dogs aren’t walked because they need to be. Most of the back­yards are larg­er than the entire block where my apart­ment sits. It’s all a display—hiring some­one to walk your dog isn’t about con­ve­nience here; it’s anoth­er lux­u­ry item to flaunt, like a live-in train­er or a mono­grammed bread box. I think about how many times I’ve walked past a South­ern Manors throw draped over a vel­vet chaise, or a sil­ver lamp shaped like a pineap­ple in these homes. It’s decor that says some­thing about who lives here, even if no one actu­al­ly uses it.

Rain soaks into my shoes as Bear tugs me for­ward, and I glance up at one of the McLarens’ mas­sive win­dows. Their gold­en retriev­er once barked at me so much dur­ing a walk that a neigh­bor called ani­mal con­trol. It’s all fad­ed now into rou­tine. Mrs. McLaren always greets me in expen­sive work­out clothes, even though I’ve nev­er seen her leave the house except for Botox appoint­ments. Emi­ly Clark, on the oth­er hand, talks about “sup­port­ing local busi­ness” but thinks she deserves saint­hood for leav­ing out a bot­tled water.

They all pre­tend to care, but it’s script­ed. If they real­ly cared, they’d know I’m not some­one who’s impressed by hol­low praise or tips wrapped in con­de­scen­sion. These peo­ple com­pli­ment your grit, then act sur­prised when you don’t fall over in grat­i­tude. They think let­ting you inside their gat­ed life is char­i­ty. But I’m not grate­ful. I’m work­ing. And I’m watch­ing.

Bear and I loop past a row of near­ly iden­ti­cal homes, the kind where every porch has a wel­come mat and no one ever actu­al­ly answers the door. Main­te­nance vans and land­scap­ing trucks buzz along the road, mak­ing it feel more like a show­room than a neigh­bor­hood. Every detail is curat­ed, right down to the gar­den gnomes that are prob­a­bly import­ed from Italy. Mean­while, my place has a show­er that only gives hot water when you slam the knob with your fist.

My apart­ment smells like mildew on good days, but I’ve made it mine. Dol­lar-store string lights, old books stacked in cor­ners, thrift­ed art hung just right—it’s not much, but it tries. Still, noth­ing I do can make it look like any­thing in Thorn­field. I once saw a brass door­knob at the Ingra­hams’ house that prob­a­bly cost more than my mat­tress. Some­times I won­der if I even want what they have, or if I just want the chance to prove I could fit into it bet­ter than they ever could.

A part of me believes that if I played it right, I could have a house like theirs. Or at least, pre­tend I belong in one long enough to make it real. It’s not about the mon­ey, not entire­ly. It’s about not being invis­i­ble any­more. It’s about some­one like Mrs. Reed actu­al­ly remem­ber­ing my name instead of call­ing me “sweet­heart” like I’m the cashier at a farmer’s mar­ket she vis­its once a year.

I duck under a pine tree with Bear, wait­ing out a sud­den gust of wind that pelts us with wet nee­dles. His fur is soaked, but he’s con­tent, tail wag­ging as he sniffs at the base of a mail­box shaped like a minia­ture ver­sion of the house it belongs to. Even their mail­box­es have HOA-approved roofs. I glance down at my own reflec­tion in a puddle—hair frizzed, coat sag­ging under the rain, sneak­ers already soaked through.

Still, some­thing about this walk feels like a step toward some­thing more. A qui­et resolve hard­ens in my chest. I’ll keep show­ing up in my rain­coat. I’ll let them under­es­ti­mate me, let them think I’m just anoth­er pair of dirty shoes on their mar­ble floors. But I see every­thing. And some­day, they’ll know it.

Bear nudges my leg, ready to move again, and I give him a quick pat. We head back toward the Reeds’ house, the storm still driz­zling over Thorn­field Estates, but some­thing in me has already start­ed to shift. There’s some­thing about walk­ing past lux­u­ry every day that stops it from feel­ing untouch­able. You start to see the cracks under the sur­face. And if there are cracks, there’s a way in.