"Open up already," Faith said through gritted teeth, rattling the key in the lock.
"Betcha it's a bad copy. Ask desk guy for a new one," suggested Buffy.
Faith'd complained about a key not working once, about being stuck in a stinking hallway half the night. Still could feel the sting of her mom's hand across her cheek. Quityerbitchin, Faithie, she'd slurred. Faith got good at making do after that.
"Don't wanna," Faith mumbled. Betcha B's key was golden, just like her life. Fuck, why was she always the one holding the crappy copy? "It's fine. It'll work. You'll see."