"What is this place?"
"Ours," I say, pulling the keys from the envelope. "The club got it for us."
Mercy doesn't move toward it. She just stands there, helmet dangling from her fingers, taking in the brand-new doublewide.
"It's nice," I offer. "Don't you think?"
She doesn't answer. Just walks forward slowly, like she's approaching a wild animal. Her eyes scan everything?—
"Do you like it?" I ask.
No answer. Just that stare that's too old for her face.
I climb the steps, wood groaning under my weight, and unlock the door. It swings open without the screech I'm used to. No rust. No rot. Just clean hinges and the smell of new carpet.
Mercy follows me inside, and the difference between this and our old place hits hard. The living room is open and bright withthat expensive wide-plank vinyl flooring that’s so popular these days. There’s even actual furniture—a couch that doesn't sag, a coffee table without cigarette burns, a TV mounted to the wall.
The kitchen has black appliances that weren't made before I was born. White cabinets. A refrigerator that doesn't sound like it's dyin’. Countertops void of knife marks or cigarette burns.
Mercy moves through the space like a ghost. She opens every cupboard, every drawer. Runs her fingers along the edges of counters. Turns on the faucet and watches water flow clear, not rust-colored.
I follow her down the hallway where she pushes open doors. Three bedrooms. One for each of us, with the third waiting for Destiny if she ever comes back. A bathroom with a shower that doesn't leak. Closets with actual doors.
She doesn't say a word through any of it. Just looks. Touches. Tests.
When she's seen everything, she walks back to the kitchen and stands in the center of it. Her small shoulders start to shake, and before I can reach her, she's crying—silent tears streaming down her face.
"Mercy?" I crouch down in front of her. "What's wrong? Don't you like it?"
She shakes her head, but I can't tell if that means no, she doesn't like it, or no, that's not why she's crying.
"Talk to me," I say, gentler than I knew I could be. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. "Good things don't happen to me," she whispers. "Not things like this."
My chest tightens. "What do you mean?"
"The clubhouse was good," she says, "but that's different. That's inside my world. This—" she gestures around at the clean, new space "—this isn't. I don't belong here."
Something breaks inside me. How sad of a kid do you have to be—how utterly lost and hopeless—to see a shiny, brand-new home as something you don't deserve?
"Listen to me," I say, taking her small hands in mine. They're calloused in places no child's hands should be. "This is our new life. The club is our family now. Things are gonna be different."
She looks at me with those eyes that have seen too much. "You always say that."
"I know." The truth cuts. "But this time I have proof." I gesture around us. "This is real, Mercy. This is ours. And nobody's taking it away."
"Until they do," she whispers.
I shake my head. "Not this time."
"How do you know?"
"Because I paid for it already." The words come out harder than I meant. "Three years in a cage. That was the price. And I'd do it again if it means you get to have this."
Her eyes widen slightly. "You didn't do anything wrong. Destiny told me."
"It doesn't matter." I stand up, suddenly needing to move. "What matters is what happens next. We’re gonna have a nice, easy summer, Merce. That’s what happens next. You’re gonna live here, in our new house, and have all the fun you want. And then, when summer’s over, you’re gonna go back to school and do your best.”
