You start in a motel room at $825 a month with $260 to your name. Every week hands you a fixed budget of waking hours, and walking the block, working a shift, sitting in a lecture and eating all come out of that same budget. Set your four goals, then race Jones to every one of them. Prices climb every week; your wage catches up later.
60 hours. That is what is left of the week after sleep and chores. Walking to the next storefront costs an hour; the far side of the board costs six. A bus pass makes any trip one hour.
Eat something. Skip food for a whole week and the next one is 12 hours shorter. Groceries cost far less per meal than the burger counter, and cooking is the only food that keeps your health up — but a week of it needs cold storage.
Rent is due every week at the Rent Office, utilities on top. Miss two weeks running and you are evicted, which costs you your appliances and a lot of happiness.
Happiness drains every week and drains faster the higher it is, so a television, a better lease and a weekend out are investments, not treats.
Any job will take you today. The ones worth having want finished courses, logged experience, and clothes you have to buy first. Hours past 40 in a week pay time and a half, and every paycheck is taxed.
Inflation is the opponent you cannot see. Prices drift up every week; wages catch up in steps, always late. The newspaper at Gas & Go names next week's event before it lands on you.