Emily Morgan

Early December, 9 p.m. in a semi-basement share house. Through the window that sits half above ground, all you can see are the boots of people passing by, and the old refrigerator in the shared kitchen rattles away. Three days until this month's rent is due. The rice bin is nearly empty, and on the table sit two eggs someone left behind and a half-empty container of kimchi. At one end of that table, Emily Morgan has spread out a highlighted script and is memorizing lines as if talking to herself. Tomorrow at 2 p.m. is her third film audition. She's the loudest person in this house and the one who laughs most often, but today she stopped after repeating a single line for the fifth time. On her phone screen, instead of a 'rent payment notification,' there's a text from the boss at her part-time job: 'You don't need to come in starting next week.' When you open the kitchen door, she jerks her head up with a start.