Does anyone actually answer their door when they aren’t expecting someone? Ever since delivery companies started leaving things on the porch rather than knocking, because they need a signature, I can’t remember the last time I answered my front door. The sound probably wouldn’t even register, except it makes my black lab, Ramos, go crazy. I usually just let him bark until the knocker leaves. Sometimes I take a look out the window, but I rarely ever answer.

Today is no different. Ramos is standing directly in front of the door, yapping away, but I breeze right by on my way to the kitchen.

It’s late and I’m exhausted. All I can think about is stripping off my clothes, standing in the shower, and letting the stream of hot water pelt me for as long as I can take it. We’d spent all day laying pavers for a patio renovation at the home of one of my long-time clients. The work was backbreaking, but it turned out beautiful. I’m so damn proud of what a great job my crew did, I took the guys out to dinner afterward. It was a quick trip to a burger place because we were all dirty and sweaty, but it was something to show my appreciation.

The knocking and barking continue.

“Ramos!” I yell, hoping to get him to back away.

I’m actually hoping whoever is on the other side of the door will take the hint and leave. But after five more minutes, they’re still there, and I feel like an idiot for letting it go on that long.

Nudging Ramos out of the way with my knee, I unlock the door and open it just enough to peek out. Using one leg to keep my dog back, I greet the man standing on my porch.

“Mr. Raines?” he asks.

“Can I help you?” I ask, appraising him. He doesn’t seem intimidating: clean-shaven face. Perfect haircut. Wrinkle-free, navy-blue suit and crisp, white shirt with a bright pink tie. Not threatening at all, but can you ever really tell just by looking at someone?

“Yes,” the man answers as he digs into the leather laptop bag hanging off his shoulder. He produces a legal-size white envelope. “I’ve been trying to reach you through letters and phone calls.”

My heart pounds rapidly and I swallow hard. The only thing I can think about is that this man is from Immigration and Customs Enforcement, coming to tell me this is it—I need to leave the country.

“Well, if I haven’t answered your attempts to contact me, I’m probably not interested in whatever you’re selling,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. The reality is that I don’t know what he’s here for, since I haven’t looked at the information he’s given me yet, and I can’t let the fear and uncertainty swirling around in my stomach get the best of me.

“I’m not selling anything, sir. My name is Thomas Lowell and I’m here following up multiple attempts to contact you. I need to make sure you understand what the future brings.”

Shit.

My stomach drops and the overwhelming urge to slam the door and climb out of my bedroom window takes over, but I know I can’t get away. It’s time to face the consequences of decisions other people made for me when I was a child. I knew it was coming. I’ve been preparing myself; I just didn’t think it would happen right now. I thought I had more time.

“As you know—or should know—from previous correspondence, the land this building stands on was rezoned last year, after the owner sold the property to a development company.” He hands me the folder. “The demolition process on this building is scheduled to begin in less than three months.”

“Excuse me?” I take the folder. My heart, which has been racing out of fear of thinking I was about to be presented with deportation papers, now pounds out of confusion. I have absolutely no clue what this Thomas Lowell is talking about.

I do remember seeing a notice about rezoning, but if I’m completely honest, I skimmed it and tossed it into the trash. The city is going to do what they want to do, I don’t really have a say, so I didn’t pay attention. I never realized it said this building was being torn down.

Thomas leans in and points to the folder. “If you look, you’ll see copies of the letters we’ve sent regarding these changes and what was happening with this property. You’ve had more than six months to find a new place to live.”

“Fuck me,” I say under my breath. The folder is marked with a Lowell Law logo. I pull the papers out and skim the top letter quickly, trying to get a quick understanding, since I don’t have time to read all of the information right now.

The area I live in has changed immensely over the last ten to fifteen years. Buildings around me have been demolished, others renovated and made into housing or breweries. The complex I live in isn’t very big—a total of about fifteen units—tucked behind a large empty plot of land, that many people used for parking, before a huge warning sign went up about private property, and vehicles parked there without permit would be booted and towed. When I see a moving truck, I never know if someone’s coming or going. Guess I should pay more attention—and read my mail.

“None of this should come as a surprise, Mr. Raines,” he says in sharp tone. I cut my eyes to his and he takes a slight step back. “But I understand that could be the case if you haven’t been reading the correspondence.”

“I didn’t realize the rezoning affected me. I thought the letters were a formality.”

Thomas Lowell nods. “I understand. That’s why I’m here following up with you and the remaining residents in person. You’ll need to secure other housing soon.”

“You said I have three months?”

“Technically yes, but that’s the day demolition starts, so you’ll need to be out before that. There will be a lot of noise and action around here before then. This isn’t something that can be stopped.”

I nod absently. “I get it. Thank you.”

“If you have any questions, please call. I put my card inside.”

“Sure thing,” I say as I shut the door, leaving Thomas Lowell on my doorstep.

Ramos follows me to the kitchen. While he heads for his water bowl, I slide onto a bar stool. A quick skim over the papers confirms what Thomas Lowell said. Rezoning notice, blah blah blah. The next is a letter from the former owner of the building, stating they’ve sold to a development company and that all residents have to be out by a certain date—which is two months from now.

Two months.

Fuck.

My apartment is fairly small and wide open. While sitting at the bar, I can see the entire space. Kitchen in front of me, living room directly behind me. Bedroom and bathroom doors off the living room. I don’t have much stuff, so sorting shit and packing up isn’t going to be a big deal. That’s the good news.

Ramos sets his head on my thigh, as if he knows I’m stressed. I rub his neck and ears. What am I going to do with him? Can I bring my dog to the Czech Republic? He’s never been on a plane, and I don’t know if a twelve-hour flight is the best way to introduce him to air travel.

No. I’ve got to find him a home here.

The thought crushes me. I rescued him from a shelter right after my grandfather’s death. He’s been the one thing I’ve been able to count on for comfort. We saved each other.

Where the fuck am I going to live after I leave here? I can afford one of those weekly hotels, but damn! Those places are shady as fuck. And I’m not going to waste money on trying to find a high-end property to lease for a few months.

There’s no doubt in my mind that Hugo, my crew leader, and his wife, Anna, would let me stay at their home, but they also have their daughter, her boyfriend, and their three kids under that roof and I’d never think about imposing—not when I have the means to stay somewhere else.

Sighing, I close my eyes and tap the letter against the counter. Up until this point, I’ve avoided thinking about the logistics of leaving. Not my smartest idea, but I kept holding onto a shred of hope that something would change. The walls are closing in and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Everything I need to do to prepare feels like an anvil on my chest.

Maddie believes our arrangement can save me from having to leave the country when my work permit expires, but I know the truth. Marrying her—or any U.S. citizen—won’t help me stay in the country. According to my immigration lawyer, in order for me to continue my life in America—and eventually apply for citizenship—I must leave. As of right now, there’s no way around it because my mother didn’t stop at a customs checkpoint when she brought me into the country. I’m not here on a government-approved green card or work permit. I was eligible for Deferred Action because I was a childhood arrival. “Deferred” meaning my deportation was put off, not forgiven.

It seems like every day I get another clue to do the right thing: go to the Czech Republic for as long as I need to and try to get back to America legally. With the upcoming demolition forcing me out of my apartment, it feels like something—a higher being or universal energy, or whatever you want to call it—is pushing me to leave.

Who’s going to take care of my grandma? Who’s going to take care of Ramos? Who’s going to protect Maddie?

These are reasons I have a problem believing in a higher being. I’ve lived my life as a good person. I’ve never gotten into major trouble. I do right by others. I’ve tried going to church and nightly prayers, but neither of those were my thing. And now I’m faced with losing my family, my business, and the girl I’ve loved for years. What did I do to deserve this?

There’s no time for an existential crisis right now. I need to roll with the punches, and figure this shit out—like I’ve done my entire life.

I need solutions.

Ramos lifts his head when I shift to reach into my pocket and grab my phone. After entering the passcode quickly, I pull up a web browser. Taking a deep breath, I tap out “capital of Czech Republic” into the search bar and hit return.

Prague.

Ready or not, here I come.