It was a modest, two-bedroom space with clean, beige carpets and pristine, white walls. It smelled of fresh paint and pine cleaner. It was completely furnished with sturdy—though not particularly aesthetic—furniture. The small living room included a navy blue sofa and arm chair, a set of oak end tables with a matching coffee table, and a metal TV stand, which was missing a TV. “Wow, they couldn’t include a TV?” Carla asked. I shrugged. “I guess they don’t consider a TV furniture.” I stepped into the kitchen to find that it was fully equipped—including a microwave oven. There was even a compact washer and dryer set. “At least we won’t have to go to the laundromat,” I said. Carla rolled her eyes. “Yay.” I sighed. “Carla, what did you expect? A penthouse?” “No, just not this.” “Well, we can make it feel like home. I’m gonna go and pick out my bedroom.” “Yeah, sure. Doesn’t matter to me,” she muttered. I shook my head and continued through the apartment.
