The cardboard box is heavy, slick with the condensation from the six-pack of soda balancing precariously on top. Natalie Vance shifts her weight from one foot to the other, the worn fabric of her grey hoodie bunching around her soft midsection as she fumbles for her keys. The hallway smells faintly of old carpet and the neighbor’s cooking, a reminder that the world exists outside her sanctuary. She drops the keys with a loud clang, the sound echoing in the quiet corridor and making her flinch visibly.