The photograph was faded around the edges, creased from being folded and unfolded too many times. A woman with Calla's dark hair and Benji's smile stood between two children, her arms around their shoulders. The background was a park — not unlike the one they'd visited yesterday — with trees just beginning to turn autumn colors.
Calla traced her finger along the edge of the photo, careful not to smudge it. She rarely looked at it anymore. It hurt too much, like pressing on a bruise that never quite healed.
But tonight, with Benji finally asleep after another day of cautious normalcy at Iris's apartment, she'd pulled it from the hidden pocket in her backpack. A reminder, maybe. Of what they'd lost. Of why they couldn't get too comfortable.
A soft knock on the door frame made her look up. Iris stood there, holding two mugs of tea, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.
"Thought you might still be up," she said quietly. "Mind some company?"
Calla hesitated, then slid over on the small sofa, making room. Iris handed her one of the mugs — chamomile, by the smell — and settled beside her, not too close but not deliberately distant either.
"What's that?" she asked, nodding toward the photograph in Calla's lap.
For a moment, Calla considered tucking it away. Private things should stay private. That had been the rule on the streets. The less people knew about you, the safer you were.
But Iris had shared her own past. And after almost a week in her apartment, Calla was starting to believe that maybe — just maybe — Iris's kindness didn't have a hidden cost.
"My mom," she said finally, turning the photo so Iris could see. "And us. Three years ago."
Iris leaned closer, studying the image. "You have her eyes."
"Everyone said that."
"And Benji has her smile."
Calla nodded, a lump forming in her throat. "Yeah. He does."
They sat in silence for a moment, steam rising from their mugs, the photograph between them like a bridge across time.
"What was she like?" Iris asked gently.
Calla took a sip of tea, letting the warm liquid soothe her throat before speaking. "Strong. Funny, when she wasn't too tired. She worked all the time, but she'd still read to Benji every night. No matter what. Even if she was falling asleep while she did it."
"And your dad?"
The question hung in the air, sharp-edged. Calla's fingers tightened around the mug.
"Left when Benji was two. Just... disappeared. No goodbye, no nothing. Mom came home from work and his stuff was gone." The words came out flat, emotionless. "He calls sometimes. Birthdays, Christmas. Says he's got a new family now. In Arizona or somewhere."
Iris didn't offer empty sympathies. She just nodded, understanding in her eyes. "And Benji doesn't remember him?"
"Not really. I think he remembers the idea of him more than the actual person."
"Must have been hard on your mom."
"She never complained. At least, not to us." Calla set her mug down on the coffee table. "She was fine on her own. We were fine."
"Until she got sick," Iris said softly.
Calla looked at her sharply. "How did you know?"
"Just guessing. From what you've told me." Iris's voice was careful, neutral. "What happened?"
Calla hesitated. She never talked about this — not to anyone. But the words were there, pressing against her chest, demanding to be let out.
"Cancer," she said finally. "Started in her breast, then spread. Everywhere. She ignored it at first. Couldn't afford to miss work. By the time she finally saw a doctor, it was..." She swallowed hard. "They gave her six months. She lasted four."
Iris didn't reach for her, didn't offer platitudes. She just sat there, present in the silence, letting Calla's words exist between them.
"Did she have insurance?" she asked eventually.
Calla shook her head. "Some. Not enough. The medical bills..." She trailed off, remembering the stacks of papers that arrived even after the funeral. The red "PAST DUE" stamps that seemed to get bigger every month.
"And your aunt?"
"Mom's sister. She tried, I guess. For a while. But she had her own kids, her own problems. Kept saying we were just too much." Calla's voice hardened. "One day she told us she needed some space. That we should go stay with 'friends' for a week or two. Then she stopped answering her phone."
"So you've been on your own since then?"
"Pretty much. We stayed in shelters at first. But they wanted to separate us — put Benji in a foster home, send me to a group home. So we left."
"And your dad?"
"I called him. Once. Told him Mom was gone. That we needed help." Calla's laugh was bitter, brittle. "He said he was sorry, but his new wife wasn't comfortable with the idea of us coming to stay. Offered to send fifty bucks instead."
"Did you take it?"
"No. Hung up on him." Calla looked down at the photograph, at her mother's smiling face. "Haven't spoken to him since."
Iris was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Does Benji know all this?"
Calla shook her head. "He knows Mom died. He knows our aunt couldn't keep us. That's it."
"Not about your dad?"
"He thinks Dad died too. In an accident." Calla met Iris's eyes defiantly. "It's better that way. Let him think both his parents loved him. That they'd be here if they could."
"You're protecting him."
"Someone has to."
Iris nodded slowly. "You've carried a lot, haven't you? For someone so young."
Something in her tone — not pity, just recognition — made Calla's eyes burn. She blinked hard, looking away.
"It's not a big deal. Lots of kids have it worse."
"That doesn't make what happened to you okay."
Calla didn't answer. She carefully folded the photograph along its familiar creases and tucked it back into her backpack. Some wounds weren't meant to be exposed for too long.
"Thank you," Iris said suddenly.
Calla looked up, confused. "For what?"
"For trusting me with that. I know it wasn't easy."
It hadn't been. But somehow, sitting here in the quiet apartment with the sounds of the city muffled outside, it felt... if not good, then at least right. Like setting down a heavy backpack after carrying it for miles.
"Can I ask you something?" Calla said.
"Of course."
"That store owner. Rick. Do you think he'd let me work for him? To make up for what I did?"
Iris raised her eyebrows. "You want to work at the store?"
"Just a few hours. After school stuff, maybe. Stocking shelves or whatever." Calla hesitated. "I need to start saving some money. For... things."
She didn't mention what she'd seen earlier that day — the calendar on Iris's fridge with a small star marked three months from now. "BIRTHDAY!" written in purple marker. Or the way Iris had lingered over a display of hand-painted coffee mugs at the market they'd passed on their way home from the park.
Small details. But important ones.
"I could talk to him," Iris said thoughtfully. "He's a good guy. Probably could use the help."
"I'd work hard. And I wouldn't... you know."
"I know you wouldn't." Iris smiled. "Let me see what I can do."
Calla nodded, relief washing through her. A job. A real one. Not just collecting bottles for the deposit or holding spots in line for people willing to pay. Something legitimate. Something that might help build a future beyond just surviving until tomorrow.
"Thanks," she said quietly.
"No promises. But I'll try."
Outside, a siren wailed in the distance, a familiar city lullaby. Calla yawned despite herself, the day's emotions catching up to her all at once.
"You should get some sleep," Iris said, standing. "School stuff tomorrow, remember?"
Calla made a face. "Math assessment. To see how far behind I am."
"You'll do fine."
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one who has to remember how to do algebra after missing two years of school."
Iris laughed softly. "True. But I've seen you help Benji with his crosswords. You're smarter than you give yourself credit for."
The compliment was casual, matter-of-fact. Like Iris was simply stating something obvious. It left a warm feeling in Calla's chest as she stood, gathering her backpack.
"Night, Iris."
"Goodnight, Calla."
As she turned to go, Iris added, "Thank you. For sharing your story with me."
Calla paused in the doorway, not looking back. "Thanks for listening."
She made her way to the small bedroom she shared with Benji, his soft snores filling the darkness. Setting her backpack down beside the bed, she slipped under the covers, careful not to wake him.
The photograph of her mother was safely tucked away again. The past couldn't be changed. But maybe — just maybe — the future could be different than she'd imagined.
For the first time in a long time, Calla fell asleep without checking the locks twice or planning escape routes in her head. Without the weight of tomorrow pressing down on her chest like a stone.
Just sleep. Deep and dreamless.
A small mercy, but a real one.
"You're hired!"
Rick's voice boomed through the small convenience store, making Calla jump. She stood awkwardly by the counter, hands shoved in her pockets, not quite believing what she'd just heard.
"Really?" she asked. "Just like that?"
Rick — a burly man with salt-and-pepper hair and reading glasses perched on his nose — grinned at her. "Just like that. Iris vouched for you. That's good enough for me."
Calla glanced at Iris, who stood nearby pretending to examine a display of energy bars. She'd kept her promise, speaking to Rick the very next day after their late-night conversation. Now, less than a week later, here they were.
"But... I stole from you," Calla said, the words feeling strange in her mouth. Strange to admit it so openly. Strange to not be running away afterward.
Rick waved a dismissive hand. "Water under the bridge. Everyone deserves a second chance." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. "Besides, I need someone who can reach the top shelves without a ladder. Getting too old to be climbing around like a monkey."
Calla didn't know whether to laugh or cry. This wasn't how the world worked — at least, not the world she'd known. In her experience, mistakes had consequences. Permanent ones. You didn't get do-overs. You didn't get forgiveness. You just got harder, smarter, more careful about not getting caught next time.
But here was Rick, offering her exactly that. A do-over. A fresh start.
"When can I start?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
"How's today? After school, of course." Rick winked at Iris. "Your guardian here was very clear about the whole education-comes-first thing."
The word "guardian" sent a strange flutter through Calla's chest. Was that what Iris was now? The thought was both terrifying and comforting. Someone responsible for them. Someone who cared what happened to them.
"Today works," she said, before she could overthink it. "What time?"
"Four-thirty? Work till seven? Six bucks an hour, paid weekly." Rick raised his bushy eyebrows. "That sound fair?"
It sounded more than fair. It sounded like a miracle. Eighteen dollars a day. Ninety dollars a week if she worked every weekday. In three months, she could save enough for something really special for Iris's birthday. Something to say thank you. Something to say... I'm glad I stayed.
"That's perfect," Calla said, feeling a smile tug at her lips despite her best efforts to play it cool. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," Rick chuckled. "Wait till you've had to restock the soda cooler a few times. Those cases are heavier than they look."
Iris stepped forward, finally abandoning her pretense of shopping. "I can pick Benji up from the community center and bring him by to walk home with you when you're done. It's only a few blocks."
The community center. Another new development in their rapidly changing lives. A place with after-school programs where Benji could go while Calla studied with Iris's friend Maria, a former teacher who'd agreed to help get her caught up to grade level.
So many people. So much kindness. It was almost overwhelming.
"Yeah, that would be good," Calla said. "He'd like that."
"Then it's settled!" Rick clapped his hands together. "See you at four-thirty, Miss Calla. Bring your A-game."
As they left the store, stepping out into the crisp autumn air, Calla felt lightheaded. Like she might float away if she didn't concentrate on keeping her feet on the ground.
"You okay?" Iris asked, glancing at her.
"Yeah. Just... it's a lot. All at once."
"Too much?"
Calla considered the question, then shook her head slowly. "No. Not too much. Just... different."
Iris smiled. "Different can be good."
"Yeah." Calla took a deep breath, letting the cool air fill her lungs. "I think maybe it can be."
They walked in companionable silence for a block, fallen leaves crunching beneath their feet. Then Calla said, quietly, "Thank you. For talking to Rick."
"I just made the introduction. You did the rest."
"Still. You didn't have to."
Iris bumped her shoulder gently against Calla's. "That's what... friends do. They help each other out."
Friends. The word hung in the air between them, tentative but real. Calla let it sit there, not challenging it, not pulling away from it. Just accepting it for what it was. A possibility. A beginning.
"So," Iris said as they turned onto their street. "First day of work, first week of homeschooling. Big changes."
"Good ones, though," Calla admitted. Then, before she could stop herself: "Benji's happier than I've seen him in... I don't know how long."
"And you?"
The question was casual, but Calla heard the genuine care behind it. The real wanting to know.
"I'm... getting there," she said honestly. "One day at a time."
And she was. The constant knot in her stomach was loosening, bit by bit. The hypervigilance was fading, allowing her to actually sleep through the night. The reflexive mistrust was giving way to something more nuanced. More hopeful.
"That's all any of us can do," Iris said as they reached the apartment building. "One day at a time."
The convenience store was quiet at five-thirty on a Tuesday afternoon. A few customers drifted in and out — office workers picking up snacks on their way home, neighborhood regulars stopping for lottery tickets or cigarettes. Rick showed Calla the basics: how to stock the shelves, how to rotate products so the oldest ones sold first, how to use the pricing gun for items on sale.
"Nothing too complicated," he assured her. "Just common sense and a little elbow grease."
Common sense she had plenty of. And the work felt good — straightforward, purposeful. Each shelf she organized, each display she straightened gave her a small sense of accomplishment. Something tangible. Something she could point to and say: I did that.
She was arranging a pyramid of canned soup when the bell above the door jingled. Looking up, she saw a familiar face — Mr. Chen from the apartment across the hall from Iris's. He nodded at her, his eyes crinkling with recognition.
"Ah, young lady! You work here now?"
Calla straightened, brushing dust from her hands. "Yes, sir. Just started today."
"Good, good. Hard work builds character." He smiled, his accent thickening slightly. "My father always said this."
"Mine too," Rick called from behind the counter. "Sounds like dads are the same everywhere."
Mr. Chen laughed, making his way to the refrigerated section. "Universal wisdom."
Calla turned back to her soup cans, a strange feeling settling in her chest. These casual exchanges, this easy banter — it was so normal. So ordinary. The kind of everyday interaction she'd watched from the outside for so long, never quite a part of.
And now, suddenly, she was inside it. One of the regulars. Someone who belonged.
The rest of her shift passed quickly. By seven o'clock, her back ached from bending and reaching, but it was a satisfying kind of tired. The earned kind. Not the bone-deep exhaustion of walking all day to find a safe place to sleep, or the hollow fatigue of hunger.
As she was hanging up her makeshift apron (one of Rick's old ones, rolled at the waist to fit her), the door chimed again. Benji burst in, followed more sedately by Iris.
"Calla!" he shouted, racing toward her. "You look like a real store person!"
She laughed, catching him as he barreled into her. "What does a fake store person look like?"
"I don't know. Not like you." He peered around her at the neatly stacked shelves. "Did you do all this?"
"Some of it."
"Cool." He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "Did you get to eat any candy?"
Rick, who was counting out cash at the register, chuckled. "Store policy. One free candy bar per shift. Employee's choice."
Benji's eyes widened. "Really?"
"Really," Rick confirmed, winking at Calla. "But only for employees. Brothers have to wait outside."
Benji's face fell momentarily, then brightened again. "That's okay. Calla can share."
"Absolutely not," Calla said with mock seriousness. "Get your own job."
"I'm eight!"
"Excuses, excuses."
Their banter felt good. Normal. The kind of teasing that had been rare in recent months, when survival took precedence over silliness.
Rick counted out thirty-six dollars — two days' worth of pay, Calla realized — and handed it to her. "See you Thursday?"
She nodded, carefully folding the bills and tucking them into her pocket. "Definitely. Thank you, Mr. Rick."
"Just Rick is fine." He smiled at her, then at Benji. "You two take care now. Get home safe."
As they walked out into the evening air, Benji skipping ahead, Iris fell into step beside Calla.
"How was it?" she asked.
"Good. Really good." Calla hesitated, then added, "It feels... I don't know. Real."
"It is real," Iris said simply.
And maybe that was the most surprising part of all. That this life — this normal, steady life with work and school and a place to sleep that wasn't a shelter or a park bench — could actually be theirs. Not just something to look at through windows or imagine while falling asleep hungry.
Actually theirs.
Benji turned, walking backward to face them. "Can we get pizza? To celebrate Calla's first job?"
Iris looked at Calla. "What do you think? You're the one with the paycheck."
The money in Calla's pocket felt heavy, significant. Her first honestly earned money in longer than she could remember. Part of her wanted to save every cent. To hoard it against future need. To not spend a single dollar unless absolutely necessary.
But another part — a newer, braver part — wanted to celebrate. To mark this moment. To treat her brother to something special, just because she could.
"Pizza sounds perfect," she said, surprising herself with how easily the words came. "My treat."
Benji whooped, punching the air in victory. Iris smiled, her eyes warm with something that looked almost like pride.
"Your first official splurge as a working woman," she said. "How does it feel?"
Calla thought about it as they walked, Benji chattering excitedly about toppings a few steps ahead.
"It feels... right," she said finally. "Like maybe I earned this. Not just the pizza. But... all of it."
Iris was quiet for a moment. Then she said, very softly, "You have. You've earned every good thing that comes your way, Calla. Never doubt that."
The words settled around her like a warm blanket on a cold night. Not fixing everything. Not erasing the past. But making the present a little more bearable. A little more bright.
As they turned the corner toward the pizza place, Calla looked up at the evening sky. Stars were just beginning to appear, faint pinpricks of light pushing through the city's glow. She counted them silently. One. Two. Three. Four. More than last time.
Progress, maybe. Small steps toward something better.
A life where stars could be counted for pleasure, not just to pass the hours until dawn. A life where pizza could be purchased with honestly earned money. A life where a small apartment with borrowed blankets and second-hand dishes could start to feel, improbably but undeniably, like home.
Not perfect. Not yet settled. But real. And for now, that was enough.