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Outside her basement apartment, a November rain glued dead leaves to the sidewalk. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of cold brew coffee and unwashed laundry. Marta’s back was a knot of twisted steel, the familiar flare-up that had started three days ago after she’d simply tried to carry a bag of groceries home.

Marta stared at the words. She wanted to scream. Substantial? She couldn’t vacuum. She couldn’t drive. She couldn’t stand to cook a meal. What did “substantial” mean, if not the slow, daily erosion of her entire existence? apply odsp

“Approved,” he said.