The alarm goes off at six AM and I want to die.
Four hours of sleep. Four hours of nightmare-interrupted, dream-haunted, wake-up-gasping sleep where I kept seeing writing on walls and hearing voices that came from inside my chest. I slap the phone until it stops screaming at me, then lie there staring at the ceiling and trying to convince my body to move.
My back hurts. My feet hurt. My hands hurt where the gloves rubbed them raw yesterday. Everything hurts, but that's normal. That's every morning. Pain is just part of the job.
The apartment is quiet. Mika's still asleep in his room—the actual bedroom, not the couch for once. I can hear his soft snoring through the thin walls. Sixteen and he still snores like a chainsaw. Mom used to say he got it from Dad's side of the family. I wouldn't know. Dad left when I was twelve and took all his snoring genes with him.
I drag myself out of the armchair. My neck cricks when I turn it. Sleeping in chairs will do that. I should have gone to my bed—the couch that doubles as my bed, technically, since Mika has the actual bedroom. But I couldn't make myself move last night. Just collapsed in the chair and stayed there.
The gloves are on the coffee table where I left them. Still stained. Dark marks like oil slicks across the canvas, shimmering slightly in the morning light coming through the window. I reach out to touch them, then stop. My hand hovers over them like they might bite.
They're just gloves. Just stained canvas work gloves that I've had for two years and that need replacing anyway. The stains are rust or grease or some chemical I don't recognize. That's it. Nothing supernatural. Nothing weird.
I leave them on the table and go make breakfast.
The kitchen is tiny. Galley-style, barely room for one person, identical to every other kitchen in every other apartment in this building. Four-burner stove that only three burners work on, fridge that hums too loud, sink that drips no matter how many times I tighten it.
The dripping doesn't bother me except now it does. Every plink makes me think of that apartment, that silence where sound should be, those three knocks from the closet.
I turn the faucet tighter. The dripping continues. Not my problem right now.
I pull out eggs, bread, the last of the cheese. Make scrambled eggs for Mika—the way he likes them, slightly runny, with way too much cheese. Make toast. Pour orange juice that's mostly water at this point but he won't notice if I don't tell him. Pack his lunch: peanut butter sandwich, apple, granola bar, water bottle. The same thing every day because it's cheap and it fills him up.
He shuffles in at 6:30, still in his pajamas, hair sticking up in fifteen directions. His ears are flattened against his skull the way they get when he first wakes up. Mine do the same thing. Mom said it was genetic, that her ears did it too, that all the wolf Beastkin in her family woke up with airplane ears.
"Morning," he mumbles, dropping into his chair.
"Morning. Eat."
He looks at the eggs, the toast, the juice. "This is a lot of food."
"You're a growing boy. You need protein." I sound like Mom. I hate that I sound like Mom. But she was right—he's sixteen and shooting up like a weed. Already taller than me. Give him another year and he'll be taller than Dad was.
He picks at his eggs. "Did you know the free lunch program started this week?"
Here we go. "Yeah. You signed up?"
"No."
"Mika—"
"It's embarrassing." He stabs his eggs harder than necessary. "Everyone knows who gets free lunch. They make announcements. They have a separate line."
"Who cares what people think?"
"I care." His ears pin back, not from sleep now but from anger. "You don't get it. You don't have to deal with it. I'm the only junior who's on free lunch. Everyone else—"
"Everyone else has parents with real jobs." I don't mean for it to come out bitter but it does. "Everyone else doesn't have a sister working herself to death to keep a roof over their heads."
Silence. He stares at his plate.
I soften my voice. "The program exists for a reason. There's no shame in using it."
"Easy for you to say."
"Mika—"
"I'm not hungry." He pushes the plate away, stands up. "I'll eat the sandwich at lunch."
"You need to eat breakfast."
"I'm fine." He grabs his backpack from the couch, shoves the lunch I packed into the front pocket. "I'll see you tonight."
"Mika, come on—"
The door closes before I finish the sentence. Not quite a slam, but close. I hear his footsteps on the stairs, quick and angry, and then he's gone.
I sit at the table alone. Eat his eggs because wasting food is a sin and I'm too tired to care about my own pride. They're cold now. Taste like regret.
I'm twenty years old and I'm failing at being a parent. But I'm not his parent. I'm his sister. And I don't know how to be both.
Rodriguez's office is in the basement of our building, next to the boiler room. It smells like mildew and old paper and the cheap coffee he drinks by the gallon. He's there when I knock at 8 AM, sitting behind a desk that's too small for his frame. Orcs are big people—Rodriguez is six-five and built like he used to move furniture for a living. Maybe he did. I've never asked.
"Vedia." He looks up from his computer. "Rent day."
"Rent day." I pull the cash from my pocket. Three hundred from last night's weird job, plus the two-forty I scraped together from this week's other work. Five hundred forty dollars. Ten dollars short. "I'm short ten. I'll have it by Friday."
He counts the money. Doesn't look happy but doesn't look surprised either. "Friday. Not Saturday. Not next Monday. Friday."
"I know."
"Because if I don't have it Friday, I gotta send the second notice. You know how it works."
"I know." Everyone knows how it works. First late notice is a warning. Second notice starts the eviction clock. Three months and you're out. I've seen it happen to six families in this building since Mom died. "I'll have it Friday."
He nods, files the cash in his lockbox. Then he leans back in his chair and it creaks under his weight. "Building might sell."
My stomach drops. "What?"
"Might. Not definite yet. Owner's getting offers. Some developer wants to gut renovate, turn it into luxury condos." He says luxury like it tastes bad. "If it happens, new owners might not honor existing leases."
"That's illegal. Rent control—"
"Rent control doesn't matter if they find violations. Electrical issues. Plumbing problems. Structural concerns." He ticks them off on his fingers. "They always find something. Give everyone ninety days to vacate, do the renovations, bring in people who pay three grand for a studio."
"We've been here six years."
"I know." He looks tired suddenly. Older than I thought he was. "I'm not saying it's happening. I'm saying it might happen. Thought you should know."
I stand there, trying to breathe normally. Trying not to think about where we'd go if we got evicted. Trying not to think about Mika changing schools again, losing his friends again, starting over in some new neighborhood where we'd pay even more for less space.
"Thanks for the warning," I manage.
"Pay on time," Rodriguez says. "Makes it harder to find violations if you pay on time. Less attention."
I nod and leave before my hands start shaking.
Morrison Supply Company is three blocks away, tucked between a laundromat and a halal cart that makes the best chicken over rice in the city. The bell dings when I push open the door and Garrett looks up from his inventory sheet.
"Vedia." He's a dwarf, which means he's maybe four-foot-eight and built like a brick wall with a beard. Scottish accent even though he's lived in New York for thirty years. "Twice in one week. Business must be good."
"Business is grinding me to dust, but yeah." I head for the cleaning supplies aisle. "Need bleach, salt, rags, sponges."
He follows me, clipboard in hand. This is routine. He knows what I need before I ask. "You working yourself too hard again?"
"No such thing as too hard when rent's due."
"Aye, fair point." He pulls a gallon jug of bleach off the shelf, hands it to me. "Industrial strength. This'll strip paint if you're not careful."
"Perfect." I add it to my basket. "Three boxes of salt?"
"Three boxes." He grabs them. "Morton, not the fancy stuff. You doing ritual cleansing or actual cleaning?"
I freeze. "What?"
"Joke, lass. You always buy salt in bulk. Figured you're either cleaning or casting spells." He's smiling but his eyes are sharp, watching my reaction.
"Just cleaning." I grab a pack of sponges. "Salt's good for scrubbing."
"Mmhm." He notices my hands. "Where's your gloves?"
"In my kit."
"Let me see them."
"Garrett—"
"Vedia. Let me see your gloves."
I pull them out of my jacket pocket. I don't know why I brought them. Should have left them at home, thrown them away, bought new ones. But I can't make myself get rid of them. They're stained dark across the palms and fingers, that oil-slick shimmer catching the fluorescent lights.
Garrett takes them, holds them up to examine. His expression doesn't change but something shifts in his eyes. "Where'd you get these stains?"
"Job last night. Old building, probably rust in the pipes."
"This isn't rust."
"What is it?"
He hands them back. "Nothing good. You should get new gloves."
"These are my good gloves. I've had them two years."
"Then throw them away and buy new ones. I'll give you a discount." He's not joking now. "Those stains won't come out. And you shouldn't keep wearing them."
"Why not?"
He looks at me for a long moment. Then he shakes his head. "Just trust me. New gloves. Today."
He walks to the counter, starts ringing up my supplies. I follow, clutching the stained gloves in my fist. My heart is beating too fast.
"Garrett, what's going on?"
"You working any strange jobs lately?" He bags the bleach, the salt, the sponges. "Places that don't feel right? Instructions that don't make sense?"
I don't answer.
"Thought so." He writes something on a business card, hands it to me with the receipt. "That's my mobile. You get any more jobs like that, you call me first. Before you take them. Understand?"
"I don't understand any of this."
"You will." He looks tired suddenly. Like Rodriguez. Like everyone in this neighborhood who knows more than they say. "New gloves, Vedia. Don't wear those ones again."
The total is thirty-eight dollars. He charges me thirty. I don't argue about the discount this time.
Mrs. Kowalski's building is on Rivington, five blocks from my apartment. Pre-war, six stories, the kind of solid construction they don't make anymore. She's owned it since the sixties, which means it's rent-controlled to hell and hasn't been renovated since Carter was president. The hallway carpets are threadbare and the paint is yellowing but it's clean. Always clean.
That's my job. Every Wednesday, I clean the common areas. Vacuum the hallways, mop the stairs, wipe down the handrails. Eight hours of work for a hundred and fifty in cash, which is below market rate but Mrs. K throws in cookies and treats me like family so I don't complain.
She's waiting in the lobby when I arrive at noon, sitting in her usual chair by the mailboxes. Seventy-two years old, Polish accent that gets thicker when she's tired, gray hair always in a bun. She's wearing her good dress today—the blue one with the white collar—which means she has plans later.
"Vedia, sweetheart." She stands, hugs me like I'm her granddaughter. She smells like lavender and baking bread. "You look terrible. You sleeping?"
"Not enough."
"No one sleeps enough in this city." She pats my cheek. "Come. I have coffee. Real coffee, not that bodega sludge."
Her apartment is 1A, ground floor, same unit she's lived in for fifty-seven years. It's small but it feels huge because it's only her. Hardwood floors, lace curtains, furniture that's older than I am but solid. And everywhere—everywhere—there are symbols drawn in chalk on the doorframes and window sills. Salt lines on the thresholds. Little bundles of herbs hanging over the doors.
I've always thought it was just her being old and superstitious. Now I'm not so sure.
She pours coffee in her kitchen—actual percolated coffee in a real pot, not instant. Puts out a plate of chrusciki, the Polish cookies that are all twisted and dusted with powdered sugar. I haven't had these since Mom died. Mom used to make them every Christmas.
"Eat." Mrs. K pushes the plate toward me. "You're too skinny."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You work three jobs and take care of Mika and don't eat enough." She sits across from me, her own coffee untouched. "How is Mika?"
"Growing. Eating me out of house and home. Normal sixteen-year-old stuff."
"Good. He's a good boy. Smart." She sips her coffee. "Your mother would be proud."
The words hit harder than they should. I focus on the cookie in my hands, the powdered sugar coating my fingers. "Thanks."
"You know I worry about you."
"I know."
"This neighborhood—" She stops, starts again. "It's changing. Not always for the better. You be careful, yes?"
"I'm always careful."
"More careful." She reaches across the table, puts her hand over mine. Her skin is thin and papery, mapped with veins and age spots. "Strange things happen in old neighborhoods. Old places remember. Sometimes what they remember tries to come back."
I think about the apartment last night. The salt circle. The writing on the wall. The voice that said thank you.
"Mrs. K, do you know anything about salt circles?"
Her expression doesn't change but her hand tightens on mine. "Why do you ask?"
"Just curious. My mom used to make them. I found one yesterday." Not exactly a lie.
"Your mother was a smart woman. She knew how to protect what mattered." Mrs. K stands, goes to her kitchen drawer, pulls out a small cloth bag. "Here. Take this."
It's filled with salt and dried herbs. Sage, rosemary, something else I don't recognize. The same smell from the apartment. My hands shake when I take it.
"Put this under your bed," she says. "And Mika's bed. One under each."
"What is it?"
"Protection. From bad dreams. From things that shouldn't be there." She looks me dead in the eye. "Your mother knew about these things. You should too."
I want to ask more. Want to ask what she means, what Mom knew, what's happening to me. But Mrs. K just pats my shoulder and says, "Now go clean my building. That's what I pay you for."
The building feels different today. Or maybe I'm just noticing things I ignored before. The chalk marks on every doorframe—I thought they were just old decoration, barely visible scratches. But now I see they're deliberate. Symbols. Wards, maybe. The salt lines at every threshold. The bundles of herbs.
Mrs. Kowalski's building is protected. Has been protected for decades.
From what?
I clean on autopilot, my mind somewhere else. Vacuum the hallways. Mop the stairs. Wipe the handrails. Everything spotless, everything proper, everything safe. The building hums around me, content somehow. Settled. Like it's sleeping peacefully and nothing can wake it.
I wish our apartment felt like this.
Chen's Bodega is open twenty-four hours, which means Samira works the night shift Wednesday through Saturday and the afternoon shift Sunday through Tuesday. It's 11 PM when I push through the door, my body running on fumes and spite.
Samira looks up from her textbook—biochemistry, from the diagrams—and grins. "Look what the cat dragged in. Except you're a wolf so that's speciesist."
"Pretty sure I'm allowed to be speciesist against myself."
"That's not how it works." She closes the book, leans on the counter. "You look like death warmed over."
"Four hours of sleep and twelve hours of cleaning."
"Jesus, Vedia." She's twenty-two, human, pre-med at Hunter College, working this job to pay tuition because her parents can't afford to help and student loans are a nightmare. We bonded over being exhausted and broke. "You're going to kill yourself."
"Probably." I grab two energy drinks from the cooler, a bag of chips I won't eat but need to buy something. "How's biochem?"
"Kicking my ass. How's not sleeping?"
"Also kicking my ass. We should start a club."
She rings me up. "Twelve-fifty."
I pull out cash, count it. Realize I'm three dollars short because I gave Rodriguez everything I had. "Shit. Can I—"
"Tab it." She waves away the money. "Pay me back Friday."
"Samira, you don't have to—"
"Shut up and take the charity." She pushes the drinks across the counter. "Or don't and I'll just give them to you anyway."
I take them. Pride is expensive and I can't afford it. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it. Literally. My manager would have my ass if he knew I was running tabs." She pauses, something crossing her face. "Hey, weird question. You still doing cleaning work?"
"That's like asking if I'm still breathing."
"I mean like... special cleaning." She makes air quotes. "This guy came in earlier asking about it. Said he was looking for someone who does 'discreet residential work' and 'isn't afraid of unusual situations.'"
My ears perk up. Literally—I feel them swivel forward before I can stop them. "What guy?"
"Dunno. Didn't give a name. Older, maybe forties, white, really nice suit. Left a card." She pulls it from under the register. "Said to pass it along if I knew anyone."
The card is white, expensive stock, with just a phone number and one word: "Cameron."
My heart does something complicated in my chest. This is them. The text from last night. The voice that said will be in touch.
"You know him?" Samira's watching my face.
"No. Maybe. I don't know." I should leave the card. Should tell Samira to throw it away. Should walk out of here and never think about it again.
I take the card.
"Vedia." Samira's voice is careful now. "What kind of work are you doing?"
"Normal work. Regular cleaning. Nothing weird."
"That face says otherwise."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You haven't been fine in weeks." She comes around the counter, puts a hand on my arm. "Talk to me. What's going on?"
I want to tell her. Want to say I cleaned an apartment last night that had a ghost in the closet, that something said thank you and disappeared, that my gloves are stained with something that isn't rust and everyone keeps warning me and I don't understand any of it.
But if I say it out loud it becomes real. And I need it to not be real.
"I'm just tired," I say. "I'll be okay."
She doesn't believe me. I can see it in her face. But she lets it go. "Okay. But Vedia? Whatever it is, be careful. That guy gave me the creeps."
"I'm always careful."
"Be more careful." She hugs me, quick and fierce. Smells like coffee and the hand sanitizer the bodega requires she use between customers. "I love you, you stubborn idiot. Don't do anything stupid."
"Love you too."
I walk home with Cameron's card burning a hole in my pocket and two energy drinks I don't need because I'm not sleeping tonight anyway.
Mika's at the kitchen table when I get home at midnight, hunched over his homework. Pre-calc again. He's working through a problem set, pencil flying, ears flattened in concentration.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey." He doesn't look up.
"You eat dinner?"
"Ramen."
"Mika, that's not dinner. That's depression in a cup."
"It filled me up." Still not looking at me. Still angry from this morning.
I drop my cleaning kit by the door, hang up my jacket, go to the kitchen. Pull out eggs, cheese, bread. Start making him actual food because ramen isn't enough and he's still growing and I can't let him go hungry even if he's mad at me.
He watches me cook. After a minute: "You don't have to do that."
"I know."
"I'm not a baby. I can feed myself."
"I know that too." I plate the eggs, put them in front of him. "Eat."
He stares at the food. Then he picks up his fork and eats. Doesn't say thank you but I don't need him to.
I sit across from him, nursing an energy drink I don't want. Watch him work through his homework between bites. He's smart, Mom said. Takes after her side. Dad's side was all brawn and temper. Mika got the brains and the wolf genes and somehow avoided the worst of both.
"Kids at school say anything today?" I ask.
"About what?"
"About you. About us. About anything."
He shrugs. "Same stuff. Wolf jokes. Questions about where I live. Nothing new."
"You want to transfer schools?"
"And go where? The other schools in this district are worse." He finishes his eggs, pushes the plate away. "It's fine. I can handle it."
"You shouldn't have to handle it."
"Yeah, well." He goes back to his homework. "World's not fair. You taught me that."
I did. And I wish I hadn't. Wish I could have let him be a kid a little longer, believe in fairness and justice and things working out okay. But we didn't get that luxury. We got Mom dying and Dad leaving and me at seventeen trying to figure out how to keep us fed and housed and alive.
"Mika." I wait until he looks up. "About the free lunch thing—"
"I'm not doing it."
"I know. But I need you to understand why I want you to."
"Because we're poor. I get it."
"Because I'm scared." The words come out before I can stop them. "I'm scared all the time that I'm not enough. That I can't keep us safe. That you're going to suffer because I'm failing."
He stares at me. His ears come up, forward, surprised.
"And the free lunch program—it's not about shame. It's about making sure you eat. Making sure one thing is taken care of so I don't have to worry about it." I'm talking too fast now, words spilling out. "But if it really bothers you, if it makes school harder, then don't do it. I'll figure it out. I always figure it out."
"How?" His voice is small. "You're already working three jobs. Four if you count last night. When do you sleep? When do you rest? When do you do anything except work?"
"I don't." Simple truth. "Not until you're out of school. Not until you're somewhere better."
"That's three more years."
"I know."
"Vedia, you're going to kill yourself."
"Probably." I smile so he knows I'm joking even though I'm not. "But not yet. Not until you're safe."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "Let me get a part-time job. Stock shelves, deliveries, something. Just a few hours a week. It would help."
"No."
"Vedia—"
"You focus on school. You get good grades. You get scholarships. You get out." I stand up, take his plate to the sink. "That's your job. Mine is keeping us afloat until you do."
"That's not fair to you."
"Life's not fair. I taught you that, remember?" I start washing dishes. "Now finish your homework. It's a school night."
He goes back to his pre-calc but I can feel him watching me. Can feel the weight of everything he's not saying.
After a minute: "Mom would tell you to rest."
"Mom's not here."
"She'd say it anyway."
He's right. She would. Mom was always about balance, about taking care of yourself so you could take care of others, about knowing when to push and when to rest. But Mom also worked cleaning jobs until the day she went into the hospital and never came out. So maybe she didn't practice what she preached either.
"I'll rest when rent's paid," I say.
"Rent's always due."
"Then I'll rest when I'm dead."
"That's not funny."
"Wasn't trying to be." I dry my hands, look at him. Really look at him. Sixteen years old and already tired in a way teenagers shouldn't be. "I'm sorry, Mika. I'm sorry this is your life."
"It's not your fault."
"Feels like it is."
"It's not." He closes his textbook, stands up. "I'm going to bed. You should too."
"Soon."
"Vedia."
"Soon. Promise."
He doesn't believe me but he leaves anyway. Goes to his room—the actual bedroom, the one with the door—and closes it softly. I hear him moving around, getting ready for bed. Hear the creak of his mattress when he lies down.
I should follow his advice. Should sleep. Should rest. Should take care of myself so I can keep taking care of him.
Instead, I pull out my phone and look at Cameron's card. The number looks back at me, innocent and terrible.
Higher-paying work, the text said. Special cleaning. Discreet residential.
I think about the apartment last night. The salt circle. The voice. The stains on my gloves that Garrett said aren't rust.
I think about Rodriguez saying the building might sell. About Mika going hungry. About working three jobs and it still not being enough.
I think about Mrs. Kowalski's protected building, Garrett's warning, Samira's worry.
I should throw the card away. Block the number. Go back to normal cleaning and normal money and normal exhaustion.
Instead, I type a message: Still interested in work. What are we talking about?
The response comes in seconds: We'll send details. Glad to have you on the team.
Team. Like this is legitimate. Like this is normal. Like I'm not making a mistake that I'll regret for however long I have left to regret things.
I delete the conversation. Put the phone away. Look at my gloves on the coffee table, those dark stains shimmering in the lamplight.
Garrett said not to wear them again. Mrs. Kowalski gave me salt and herbs for protection. Samira told me to be careful. Everyone's warning me.
And I'm ignoring all of them because three hundred dollars pays more bills than caution does.
I'm twenty years old and I'm so tired I could cry. But crying doesn't pay rent. So I pull up my cleaning apps and start looking for tomorrow's jobs.
Normal ones. Regular ones. The kind that don't involve salt circles and voices and thank yous from empty closets.
At least until Cameron texts again.