Good bones my ass, Miranda mumbled to herself as she dragged the last U-haul box down the hall into her office. She came back in the living room and plopped down on the couch for a break. She looked around the place. The little cottage was falling apart right under her feet, and she was two steps from skid-row and didn't know where she'd get all the money to, at minimum, get a heating unit installed before winter. She could see the ground through the slits of the wooden floor boards in the kitchen, and with each summer afternoon downpour, moisture was building up in her crawlspace faster than the months were passing until she reached her 35th birthday. At least she was taking steps to get a summary of the repairs; that was a start, she told herself. But she knew it was a long way from having them complete. Thirty five. Something about that age made this a really big deal. "You can't get the time back, Miranda," she mumbled to herself.
