The day of the inspection arrives with a heavy air of anticipation.
I’ve barely slept, my mind racing with possibilities.
What if the inspector takes one look at my bed and writes me up?
What if Mr. Cunningham retaliates for bringing attention to his neglect?
These thoughts loop in my mind as I go through the motions of my morning routine.
The mirror shows the tiredness in my eyes, the lines of worry etched into my face.
I straighten the bed as best as I can, trying to hide the sagging ropes and loose pegs.
It’s a futile effort, but it feels like I’m doing something, at least.
The knock on the door startles me out of my thoughts.
The inspector is here, clipboard in hand, ready to make notes and ask questions.
My heart pounds as I let him in, trying to appear calm.
He moves through the apartment with practiced efficiency, noting the state of the walls, the floors, the fixtures.
And then, he reaches the bed.
His eyes scan it, taking in the ropes, the pegs, the worn wooden frame.
He jots something down, the sound of his pen scratching against the paper fills the silence.
I can’t bring myself to speak, to ask what he’s writing.
The weight of his judgment hangs in the air, heavy and oppressive.
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