Chapter 2 #2
I pull the wrapped to-go box from my backpack, yet another meal of chicken breast and vegetables for the morning. I set it on the middle shelf of the refrigerator, ready for Lena to eat before school, and check the rice cooker to confirm she prepped it before bed.
The clock on the microwave reads after midnight. Sixty-five hours and eleven minutes since I last saw my sister, when she left for school Friday morning, and I crashed out from exhaustion.
The number registers in my mind, triggering a familiar calculation of acceptable absence. Two and a half days. Two full nights. No more than that. The arrangement works because it must, not because either of us chose it.
Friday morning to Sunday afternoon belong to sleep and recovery.
To store up enough energy to function through another five days of constant movement between jobs.
Without these forty-eight hours of unconsciousness, broken only by bathroom visits and minimal meals, the entire delicate structure of our lives would collapse beneath my exhaustion.
I tell myself this arrangement serves her, too.
At sixteen, Lena needs space to breathe without her overprotective brother hovering nearby, tracking her movements, checking her homework, and counting calories to ensure she eats enough.
She gets two days of normal teenage existence, and I get enough rest to keep our life running for another week.
The kitchen counter gleams under the fluorescent light, scrubbed clean but stained in places from previous tenants.
Four matching plates are stacked in the cabinet beside two mismatched bowls, which is all we need for the two of us.
The refrigerator hums with a slight rattle from working hard past its intended lifespan, but I’ve learned to tune it out.
It will limp along until it dies, and then I’ll call the landlord to repair it.
I fill a glass with water from the tap, drinking half in slow, measured sips. Cold liquid trails down my throat, washing away the lingering diner grease and city bus exhaust.
Out of habit, I check the stove knobs, wipe the already clean counter, and straighten the dish towel on the oven door.
In the morning, I’ll wake at five thirty.
Lena will emerge from her room at six fifteen.
We’ll share twenty minutes at the kitchen table before I walk her to the bus, then head out to my first job.
The lock company needs me at nine o’clock.
The diner expects me by four in the evening.
Home before eleven thirty if the buses run on time.
Repeat four more times with variations depending on which job needs more hours.
I drain the rest of my water and place the glass upside down in the dish drainer. A yawn stretches my jaw until it cracks as my body reminds me that precious hours of rest are ticking away while I dawdle.
The exhaustion hits in earnest now, the wave of bone-deep weariness threatening to drop me where I stand. I brace one hand on the counter until it passes, then push myself toward the next task.
Lena’s backpack waits on the kitchen table, the purple fabric faded to a dusty lavender from years of use. I still need to review her homework before morning.
The system works because I make it work, because failure isn’t an option when someone else’s future hangs in the balance. My rest and comfort remain secondary to that single, non-negotiable.
Turning on the single light over the dining table, I settle into a chair and rub my temples.
Every Sunday, without fail, I check her work, not because I don’t trust her to complete it, but because one missed assignment could spiral into concerned teacher calls, meetings I can’t attend without missing work, and questions about our home life I can’t afford to answer.
I unzip the backpack with care, conscious of the zipper’s tendency to catch on the worn fabric. The contents spill out in a controlled avalanche of textbooks, a graphing calculator I paid for in installments, a binder bulging with papers, and a planner I insist she maintain.
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 confident here 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 except the 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.