Balance: $0.00

Mara checked her bank account for the sixth time that morning.

$0.00.

She stared at the number until the screen went dark.

Then she tapped it awake and checked again.

$0.00.

She laughed.

It wasn't a happy laugh. It was the thin, exhausted sound that escaped when crying felt like too much work.

Her rent was three days late. The electric company had sent a final notice. Her phone bill was due tomorrow. The refrigerator contained half an onion, a bottle of mustard, two packets of ketchup, and a carton of milk that had expired four days ago.

Mara had eleven dollars in cash.

She'd spent nine of it yesterday on bus fare and a cup of coffee.

The remaining two dollars sat on her kitchen counter.

She needed those two dollars to get to work.

She also needed to eat.

She picked up one of the bills and turned it over in her fingers.

Two dollars.

It had never looked so small.

Her stomach growled.

"Not now," she whispered.

The apartment was silent.

Too silent.

Mara had gotten used to the sounds of poverty. The refrigerator clicking on and off. Pipes rattling in the walls. The upstairs neighbor arguing with his girlfriend. The elevator groaning whenever somebody used it.

Lately, though, there was another sound.

Coins.

She had heard them last night.

A faint metallic rattling beneath her bed.

She had convinced herself it was nothing.

She couldn't afford to investigate everything that frightened her.

At 11:47 p.m., someone knocked on her apartment door.

Three slow knocks.

Mara froze.

She lived on the fourth floor.

Nobody visited her anymore.

Three more knocks.

She looked through the peephole.

A little girl stood in the hallway.

Barefoot.

Pale.

Wearing a red dress that looked several decades out of date.

Mara didn't recognize her.

The girl looked directly at the peephole.

As if she knew Mara was watching.

Then she smiled.

Mara stepped away from the door.

"Can I help you?"

The girl didn't answer.

Instead, she knocked again.

Three times.

Mara's hand hovered over the deadbolt.

Every sensible thought told her not to open it.

But then the girl spoke.

"Please."

Her voice was tiny.

Mara swallowed.

"Are you lost?"

"I need money."

Mara almost laughed.

The absurdity of it broke through her fear.

"Money?"

The girl nodded.

"I don't have any."

The girl tilted her head.

"None?"

"None."

The girl smiled.

"Good."

Mara's stomach tightened.

"What does that mean?"

The girl reached into the pocket of her red dress.

She pulled out a single dollar bill.

"Then you can have mine."

Mara stared at it.

Something was wrong.

The bill was old.

Not just old-looking.

Ancient.

The paper was yellow and brittle, the edges darkened as though they had been burned.

And the face printed on it wasn't George Washington.

It was Mara.

Her own face stared back at her.

Mara's face from years ago.

Her eyes were wide with terror.

Her mouth was open as though she were screaming.

Mara dropped the bill.

The girl whispered:

"You shouldn't have opened the door."

Mara slammed it shut.

She locked the deadbolt.

Then the chain.

Then she shoved a chair underneath the handle.

Her heart pounded.

She backed away.

Silence.

Nothing happened.

Mara waited.

One minute.

Two.

Five.

She finally let out a shaky breath.

"Okay."

She laughed nervously.

"Okay. I'm losing my mind."

Her phone buzzed.

Mara jumped.

She looked at the screen.

BANK BALANCE: $1.00

Her blood ran cold.

She refreshed the account.

$1.00

She hadn't deposited anything.

She checked the transaction history.

There was a new entry.

PAYMENT RECEIVED.

No sender.

No account number.

No explanation.

Then another notification appeared.

PURCHASE CONFIRMED.

Mara stared.

"What did I buy?"

The apartment answered.

Coins began spilling across the kitchen floor.

One.

Two.

Ten.

Hundreds.

They appeared from nowhere, clattering against the tile.

Mara backed into the wall.

The sound grew louder.

Thousands of coins poured from beneath the refrigerator.

Pennies rolled beneath the cabinets.

Quarters bounced across the floor.

Dimes collected around her feet.

And then the kitchen light flickered.

The little girl was standing in the middle of the coins.

Mara screamed.

The girl smiled.

"You bought another day."

Mara couldn't move.

"Another day of what?"

The girl looked around the apartment.

At the empty refrigerator.

The unpaid bills.

The bare cupboards.

The eviction notice taped beside the door.

"Being poor."

Mara shook her head.

"No."

The girl took one step forward.

"You wanted another day."

"I never said that."

"You checked your bank account."

Mara stared at her.

The girl smiled.

"You looked at the number and wished it would change."

Mara's mouth went dry.

"I wished I had money."

"Same thing."

The girl reached down and picked up a quarter.

"You made a purchase."

Mara looked at the coins surrounding her.

"What did I buy?"

The girl's smile disappeared.

"Time."

The apartment suddenly became freezing cold.

Mara's breath appeared in front of her.

The girl's eyes turned completely black.

"One day."

Mara stumbled backward.

"How much?"

The girl pointed toward Mara's phone.

It buzzed.

Mara looked down.

BALANCE: -$86,400.00

Her knees nearly gave out.

"No."

Another notification.

INTEREST ACCRUED: $12,000.00

Mara began shaking.

"No, no, no."

The girl laughed softly.

"You can't afford tomorrow."

The lights went out.

Mara screamed.

Something brushed against her ankle.

She kicked violently and heard hundreds of coins scatter.

Then came a whisper from beneath her bed.

"Payment due."

Mara backed toward the kitchen.

The little girl was gone.

The lights returned.

The coins were gone too.

Everything was normal.

Almost.

Her phone buzzed again.

She looked at the screen.

FINAL NOTICE.

Beneath it:

PAYMENT REQUIRED BY MIDNIGHT.

Mara checked the clock.

11:59 p.m.

She stared at the screen.

The seconds changed.

11:59:51.

A knock came from beneath her bed.

Three slow knocks.

Mara stopped breathing.

Then another three.

She didn't move.

The voice beneath the bed whispered:

"You still have one dollar."

Mara looked toward the kitchen counter.

Her remaining two-dollar bill was gone.

In its place sat a single dollar.

She approached it slowly.

There was writing across the front.

Not printed ink.

Something scratched into the paper.

YOU OWE ME YOUR LAST DOLLAR.

Mara reached for it.

Her fingers touched the bill.

The apartment door unlocked itself.

The deadbolt turned.

The chain slid free.

The door opened.

The little girl stood outside.

Behind her was a hallway that stretched impossibly far.

Doors lined both sides.

Hundreds of them.

Thousands.

And behind every door, people were crying.

Begging.

Praying.

Counting money they didn't have.

The girl held out her hand.

"Payment."

Mara looked at the dollar.

Then at the endless hallway.

"What happens if I don't pay?"

The girl smiled.

"You already did."

Mara looked down.

Her hands were empty.

The dollar was gone.

So was the apartment.

So was the hallway.

So was the little girl.

Mara opened her eyes.

She was sitting at a kitchen table.

Her kitchen.

Her refrigerator was empty.

Her bills were scattered across the table.

Her phone sat beside them.

She picked it up.

BANK BALANCE: $0.00

Mara sighed with relief.

Then she noticed the date.

Tomorrow.

She looked toward the apartment door.

Three slow knocks sounded from the other side.

A little girl's voice whispered:

"Do you have any money?"

Mara looked at the empty refrigerator.

Then at the two-dollar bill sitting on the counter.

She didn't remember having it.

She didn't remember anything.

But somewhere deep inside her, she remembered the price.

And she knew that this time, she wasn't allowed to say no.