Page 73 of Queen of Nothing

Sal’s mind comprehends the stash of cash under the mattress as our small treasure box. It’s an envelope, but that doesn’t stop his imagination from running wild.

He has to be watched like a hawk most of the time, otherwise he’ll find a way into it.

Not a risk either of us wants to take.

The big treasure is in the car, tucked away with the spare tyre. That’s a lot of envelopes, slotted in where it can fit, and we move the bulk of the cash to the car when we find moments to.

Learned our lesson when we lost all that money a couple of months back, and our only saving grace was Oliver giving me that watch.

The mere thought of him hurts.

It pangs my chest, and I distract myself quickly.

“Any word from Sofía?” I ask.

For a beat, there’s no answer.

Just the billowing of a quilt, the fluffing of flat pillows that never fluff because they are filled with cotton and not feathers, then the creak of the bedframe.

I shift in the chair.

Serena finishes making the bed before she crouches down and lifts the corner of the mattress up. She reaches into the gap and lures out a yellow envelope, then turns on me, illusioned auburn hair falling into her flushed face, and flings the envelope my way.

I catch it with ease.

“I haven’t,” she says.

It takes me a second too long to realise she’s answering my question. She hasn’t heard from Sofía.

I stash the cash into the envelope, then throw it back her way. “She’s due the next payment this week.”

Normally she’s called us by now. Either to increase her fee or tell us of her new bank account details.

Maybe she isn’t calling because she’s been caught by the Videralli, and the shields are all coming down, and I get to go home—

That’s not a safe thought.

I can’t let anything happen to Sal.

It’s just the exhaustion getting to me.

The misery of working all the time to replenish the money we spend, the care of a child, the damp bathrooms and rough bedding, the old clothes, the fucking polyester. It’s making my own coffee, getting my own snacks, doing the grocery shopping—it’s all so exhausting.

But it’s more than that.

This simply is not me.

I haven’t relaxed into this life and world the way Serena has.

And I don’t want to.

Serena thinks that if our families just let us go, then we could live free of illusion and have a better life.

I don’t agree.

Even with my true face and standing still in one place, this world isn’t for me.

Serena’s illusioned face turns to me, freckled and angular. “Any requests for dinner?”