My neighbor showed up at my door one evening with red eyes and trembling hands, asking if she could borrow $200. Her little boy needed medicine, she said, and she was short. I’m barely making it myself—counting bills, praying my card doesn’t fail at checkout—but I handed her the money anyway. She promised she’d pay me back soon. Weeks dragged by. Then months. Nothing. No knock, no envelope, not even a text. Just silence. And then, one night, I heard music through our thin apartment walls. Laughter, kids yelling, chairs scraping. A party. My stomach twisted. She couldn’t pay me...
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