It started with the wood splinters on the porch.

It  was a new apartment, in a new town; the aftermath of a death in the  family followed by a rough break-up. I suspected I was already paying  over the odds to stay there, so naturally, learning that the place  mightn’t be structurally sound left me less than impressed.

I  called the Landlord immediately, asking him if he could send a  maintenance guy out to check for necessary repairs. But when I told him  about the wood splinters I’d found, the line went quiet. When he finally  spoke again, he made some excuse about being busy and offered to call  me back later.

Only he didn’t, and I couldn’t get him to answer my calls.