He steps back, his expression closing off. “Is that what you think of me?”
“I think you’re used to getting what you want.” I move to the door and yank it open. “And right now, whatIwant is for you to leave.”
For a moment, I think he might refuse. Then he growls with frustration and strides forward.
“This isn’t over.” He passes close enough for our shoulders to brush, the contact sending an unwantedcurrent through my body. “Sooner or later, you’ll realize you can’t do this alone.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I turn the deadbolts, slide the chain into place, and shove the door stop under the handle.
From Lena’s room, music starts playing, the bass turned up only after Rowan is gone, leaving me to wonder how much she heard.
From below, our neighbor pounds on their ceiling for quiet, creating further discordance.
I slide down the door until I sit on the floor, knees pulled to my chest. The position reminds me of when I hid in closets as a child, making myself smaller to avoid attention.
I doubt Rowan understands what it’s like to sit in the dark, counting footsteps pacing on the other side and praying they never stop on the other side of your door, never break through the hollow-wood barrier.
And for the first time, I’m not sure whether I’m protecting my sister, or still hiding from our monsters.
10
The knife moves through the carrot on autopilot, my wrist flicking in the same rhythm I’ve maintained for the past six years.
Chop, slide, gather. Repeat.
The scent of garlic and onion fills the kitchen, both salvaged from the discount bin at the corner market. One more meal stretched from ingredients that cost less than bus fare. One more night of pretending we’re not counting pennies to make it to the end of the month.
Behind me, Lena’s pencil scratches across her homework, the sound punctuated by occasional sighs. Afternoon light creeps into the apartment through the angled blinds, painting golden ribbons across theceiling and highlighting every crack in our worn furniture, every stain in the paint.
“I found a job posting,” Lena says without looking up from her calculus homework. “The coffee shop by the school needs someone for after classes. Four to seven, three days a week.”
My knife pauses mid-cut. “No.”
“You didn’t even think about it.” Her pencil taps the table in a staccato rhythm that grates on my nerves. “The tips would help with groceries.”
“Your job is school.” The knife resumes its steady rhythm. “Focus on graduating with grades good enough for a scholarship.”
“That’s next year.” The chair creaks as she shifts. “We need money now.”
“We’re fine,” I lie, as if saying it will change anything.
Two days ago, I’d stood in front of Hector at Beacon on Beacon, begging for my job back. He had remained impassive as I explained about Lena’s emergency call, how I’d had no choice but to run out mid-shift. Three strikes, he’d told me, arms crossed over his chest, indifference to my situation. The restaurant wasn’t a charity, and I wasn’t his problem anymore.
The final paycheck sits in my wallet, already half-spent on rent.
I’d let my boss over at Ironclad know I could take on more jobs, but locksmith work is an on-demand service, and demand is low.
“Are we? Fine?” Her voice rises in challenge. “Is that why you’re cutting the carrot thin enough to see through? Trying to stretch it to last longer?”
My jaw tightens, but I don’t turn around. “Thin slices cook faster. It saves on electricity.”
“Right.” Sarcasm drips from the single word. “And rice for breakfast saves on milk for cereal.”
The peppers come next, seeds and ribs discarded to stretch the flesh further. “This discussion is over. No job.”
Silence falls between us, broken only by the rhythmic contact of blade striking the cutting board and the distant sound of traffic filtering through our thin windows, and it worries me that she didn’t push harder.
Lena doesn’t back off.
