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Mom’s lips purse. “Can’t believe he just dropped you off and disappeared.”

“Yeah.” I stare at the floor.

She shakes her head. “Asshole.” She turns to the kitchen. “I’m ordering pizza. You got money?”

I stuff my hands into my pockets. “I have some.”

“How much?” she demands.

“How much do you need?” I counter, trying to keep my tone as non-confrontational as humanly possible.

“Forty,” she answers.

“For pizza?”

“And cigarettes.”

“Mom—”

“What?”

“I have thirty on me,” I lie, protecting the rest. “Will that be enough?”

She huffs. “Fine.” She snatches the bills as soon as I pull them from my wallet. “You know, you really should step up around here, Kam. I fucking raised you by myself, kept you fed and a roof above your head, and all I get for it is thirty bucks.”

“I—Sorry…”

“Whatever. I’m getting the toppings I want on it, so you’ll just have to pick them off if you don’t like ‘em.”

“Okay, that’s fine,” I murmur.

“Better be fine,” she fumes.

When she glides off toward the kitchen, I seize the chance to slip back to my room. It’s the only place in my life that feels remotely safe—which is depressing, since the lock refuses to click without a screwdriver wedged in it.

I close the door against the hallway’s light and jam the flathead in the latch, twisting until it wedges tight.

When I turn, everything lies exactly where I left it. I inhale, the stale air tasting faintly of dust, then inhale again. A trembling runs through me, a whisper that something is off.

My eyes drift to the desk chair. It’s twisted ever so slightly toward the window. Was it like that this morning? I can’t remember. My lamp’s braided cord snakes across the desktop instead of curling behind it. Did I move it? The closet door stands ajar by two inches, casting a thin rectangle of shadow. I leave it open sometimes. Don’t I?

My pulse flutters. I hear it, a trapped bird beating inside my chest. “No.” My voice cracks. “No, no, no.”

I cross the room on unsteady legs and lift the loose floorboard. I pry open the shoebox and almost gasp in relief when I find the bills still untouched. I peek into the closet next, seeing my bunny and Dad’s box, both untouched.

No one’s been here.

I collapse onto the edge of the bed; the springs groan. My hands shake so hard the sheets stir. I hate this. I hate that my brain has wired every harmless sound, every empty street, into a warning signal.

I pull my knees up to my chest. The room narrows to the points of my fingernails—until motion outside drags my gaze to the window. A flicker, a shift. I freeze, every neuron sparking. Through the slit in the curtain, I can see the sedan and a man standing beside it—tall, broad across the shoulders, his coat heavy and black. He’s staring down at his phone with a cigarette pinched between his fingers.

My heart hammers so loud I’m sure he could hear it. Is it the same car? The same man I glimpsed earlier? I don’t know. Before I can think, I duck—my knee slamming against the bed frame with a crack that sends pain shooting down my leg. I clamp a hand over my mouth, desperate to swallow the panic rising in my throat.

Ridiculous. Maybe he lives here. Maybe he’s visiting someone. Maybe it’s not even the same man.

Thirty seconds pass like years. Then, with my heart still rattling, I inch upward and peer through the gap. The sedan remains, but the man is gone. I yank the curtain closed, the blackout fabric swishing over the windowpane.

My phone is in my pocket, its screen a lifeline I’m too afraid to use. Call the police? And say what? “A man smoked a cigarette on my street.” They’d get a chuckle out of that.