The Email

On the ninth day without heat, Nadia slept in her winter coat.

It was the second week of November in Calgary, and the radio said it was minus twenty outside. Inside her apartment it was not much better. She could see her breath in the kitchen. The little electric heater she had bought at the hardware store was doing its best, but it was the size of a toaster, and her apartment was not.

The big heater under the living room window had stopped working on a Saturday night. It had made a strange noise, like someone knocking on a door far away, and then it had gone quiet. On Monday she had called the property management company. A recorded voice told her that her call was important. She waited forty minutes and then the line went dead.

On Tuesday she sent an email. On Thursday she sent another one. Nobody answered.

Now it was Sunday night, and Nadia was sitting at her kitchen table with her laptop, her coat, two pairs of socks and a cup of tea that was already cold. She was writing a third email. She was typing very fast.

THIS IS THE THIRD TIME I AM WRITING. MY HEATER IS BROKEN FOR NINE DAYS. NOBODY CARES. I PAY MY RENT EVERY MONTH. THIS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE. IF YOU DON'T FIX IT I WILL CALL THE NEWS.

She read it again. It felt good. Her finger was above the Send button when someone knocked on her door.