You wake up the next morning in the tiny apartment where you now live. There's a single slim window in the bedroom letting in a little light -- not much, since there's another building immediately opposite. Battered wood floors and peeling wallpaper. A kitchen barely large enough to cook ramen in, a bathroom without a bathtub. In what passes for a living room, you have one battered desk pushed up against another slender window, one metal folding chair. Your books are stacked in piles across the floor; there's no room for bookcases, even if you could afford them. You can only manage this place because a friend passed it on to you -- student loans are eating up six hundred a month, and rent here is eight-fifty. You've never lived in a place this small before. You think you can hear rats in the walls, at night. It's making you claustrophobic.