The dream-Maya raises an eyebrow. "Which one?"
"The way I make coffee every morning and listen for your footsteps in the hall."
"Objection," Sir Pouncealot meows from somewhere in the gallery. "Leading the witness."
Everyone laughs, including dream-me, including the judge who might be Maya's mother or might be mine or might be the universe wearing a familiar face.
"Case closed," the judge rules. "Welcome home."
I wake with my cheek pressed against the English notebook, ink smudged across my jaw. Sir Pouncealot has migrated to my lap, still purring, still warm. Dawn light filters through the windows, highlighting six languages worth of hope scattered across my desk.
The petition lies beneath my elbow, thirty-seven signatures testament to last night's impossible transformation. Maya's name heads the list in her confident handwriting: "Maya Ruiz - 3B - Proud to call him neighbor."
Twelve hours.
In twelve hours, I'll know whether this country will let me stay. But right now, in this moment between sleep and waking, with Sir Pouncealot's weight anchoring me and Maya's proximity humming through the floorboards below, I already know the most important answer.
I'm home.
CHAPTER 15
MAYA
"Ms. Ruiz."
The voice catches me halfway up the stairs, coffee sloshing against the rim of my travel mug. Ms. Cavanaugh stands at the base of the stairwell, clipboard clutched against her chest like armor. Her expression could freeze boiling water.
"We need to discuss the noise situation."
Shit.Last night's potluck warmth evaporates. The petition, thirty-seven signatures of solidarity, suddenly feels naive, like bringing flowers to a knife fight.
"Of course." I descend three steps, close enough to see the official letterhead peeking over her clipboard edge. "Though I thought last night went well. Everyone seemed?—"
"Charmed?" Her laugh sounds like paper shredding. "Ms. Ruiz, charm doesn't change lease violations. Your neighbor in 4B has generated fourteen noise complaints in two months."
Fourteen.The number hits like cold water. I knew about mine, maybe suspected a few others, but fourteen means this isn't just my caffeine-fueled sensitivity. Other people have called. Other people have complained about Ursak's linguisticrehearsals, his cultural practice sessions, his attempts to perfect the pronunciation that might save his visa status.
"The complaints are about language practice," I say. "Cultural preservation. He's preparing for an immigration hearing that could?—"
"Could result in his departure, which would solve our problem." Ms. Cavanaugh's pen hovers over the clipboard. "Unless you prefer the alternative."
The alternative. She doesn't need to spell it out. Eviction notice, thirty days, find somewhere else to practice linguistic precision and pay rent with freelance deadlines.
My coffee tastes bitter now. The building around us feels different, less like home and more like a business transaction with conditional terms. Upstairs, 4B sits silent. Ursak's probably reviewing his speech notes, preparing for today's hearing, trusting that last night's community support means something.
"What exactly are you proposing?"
"Joint accountability." She flips to a fresh page. "You signed your name first on that petition. That makes you responsible for ensuring compliance with building quiet hours. Seven PM to seven AM, absolute silence from 4B."
Absolute silence.During the exact hours when Ursak practices his most challenging pronunciations, when he recites love poetry in six languages, when he prepares for the hearing that determines whether he can stay in this country.
"Those hours don't accommodate cultural practice schedules."
"They accommodateleaseschedules, Ms. Ruiz. Which is what matters inmybuilding."
Herbuilding. Not our building, not the community space where neighbors share kimchi and sign petitions and let cats steal their dinner. Her building, where business trumps belonging and compliance beats compassion.
"I'd like to propose alternative quiet hours."
