The overhead light flickers once, twice, then steadies as I arrange everything in order of priority. Physics is her hardest subject and the one most likely to contain errors. English next, then calculus, with history last, since her grades never falter there.
I flip through the physics worksheets, scanning formulas and calculations with the knowledge of someone who never completed his own education but absorbed enough through self-study to gain my GED.
I check Lena’s answers against the textbook examples, noting the careful way she shows her work. No red marks from the teacher, no questions left blank.
The English assignment is an analysis of symbolism in a novel I never had time to read. Lena’s handwriting flows across the page, more confidenthere than in her science work. I don’t understand all of it, but I recognize competence when I see it. The margins contain notes in her teacher’s handwriting about insightful connections and where she needs to expand a certain point.
The calculus, test review, is due on Wednesday. Lena has completed most of the problems, leaving a couple marked with small question marks in the corner. My chest tightens at the thought of her struggling alone while I worked double shifts, and I note them for discussion over breakfast.
Her history paper sits half-finished, but the assignment sheet indicates it’s not due until Friday. The work she’s completed shows her typical thoroughness, with cited sources, a clear thesis, and organized paragraphs.
The subject is the economic impact of designation laws on workforce participation, with a focus on Omega rights legislation from the past century. She chose a topic close to home for both of us, though her analysis remains academic.
I stack the papers by due date, aligning the edges with a careful tap on the table surface. Everything appears in order. No missing assignments, no failing grades, no warning signs that might threaten her path to graduation.
Relief washes through me, loosening the permanent knot between my shoulder blades. Lena will graduate. She will go to college. She will have options I never did.
I update the wall calendar with due dates for her papers and note adjustments to my work schedule where possible, ensuring I’m home early enough Wednesday night to help with the remaining calculus problems.
I close the planner and return everything to the backpack in reverse order, with history on the bottom and physics on top, for easy access tomorrow morning. When the zipper catches, I ease it past the worn spot with patience.
The hallway stretches dark and narrow as I approach her bedroom door.
I knock once, knuckles brushing the cheap hollow-core door, quietly enough not to wake her if she’s already fallen asleep.
“Lena?”
Silence answers, which isn’t unusual for a Sunday night when she’s likely been asleep for hours.
I turn the doorknob slowly, minimizing the click as the latch releases. The door opens far enough for me to peer inside, the light from the dining room cutting across her carpet.
The room lies in darkness, blinds drawn tight to block out the streetlights. The shape beneath her blankets remains motionless, with only a slight rise and fall betraying the presence of life. Her breathing sounds steady but shallow in the rhythm of deep sleep.
The sight of her, safe within these walls, should bring me ease, but the fine hairs on the back of my neck rise, an instinct honed by years of constant vigilance. Something in her room is off, subtle and indefinable, and the silence is too complete to be natural.
“Lena?”
I track the rise and fall of the blankets, counting the seconds between breaths. Everything appears normal. She’s just tired, the weekend spent studying or talking with the few friends I’ve vetted and approved.
Nothing more.
I’ve been unsettled since encountering that Alpha earlier in the week. He hasn’t returned on my shift, yet the memory of him keeps picking at my thoughts.
Even so, my protective instinct keeps me rooted in the doorway, scanning for threats that aren’t there. This is our home. The doors are locked. The windows are secured. There’s no danger here exceptthe kind I create by never trusting anything to be truly safe.
My attention lingers on her bookshelf, where college brochures stand in a neat row, all schools within bus distance that offer scholarship programs she qualifies for. Beside them rests a framed certificate from last year’s science competition. Evidence of a bright future taking shape.
I pull the door closed with a quiet snick of the latch, careful not to disturb her rest.
The unease follows me down the hallway to my own bedroom door, but I contain it, filing it away with all the other concerns I manage on a daily basis.
If something is wrong, I’ll handle it tomorrow.
3
The alarm slices through unconsciousness, dragging me from sleep while my body screams in protest. Five thirty comes four hours too soon.
My hand slaps at my phone, silencing the noise before it can penetrate the thin wall separating my room from Lena’s. The dark silence cocoons me as I lie still for ten precious seconds, gathering the will to move.
