Chapter 1 One

• The beeping of my alarm drags me from sleep. I slap at my phone to silence it, my eyes still closed. The sheets feel cold against my skin.
• I don't want to face today, but I have no choice. When I finally open my eyes, the first thing I see is that damn eviction notice on my counter, glaring at me in the dim morning light.
• "Fuck," I whisper.
• I sit up and rub my eyes. The apartment is freezing again. The heater broke last week, and the landlord won't fix it. Not that it matters now, I won't be here much longer if I can't come up with the rent.
• Three months behind. How did I let it get this bad?
• I drag myself out of bed. My feet hit the cold floor, and I gasp. The space is so small I can see my entire life from here, kitchenette with the dripping faucet, bathroom door that sticks, closet with clothes I've had for years.
• I walk to the counter and pick up the notice. Final warning. Seven days to pay or vacate.
• "Great. Just great."
• The panic rises in my chest, that familiar tightness that never really goes away. I close my eyes and see my parents' faces. Mom's gentle smile, Dad's determined eyes.
• "What would you do?" I ask the empty room. "Mom, Dad, I miss you."
• No answer comes. There never is. They've been gone for fifteen years, and I'm still talking to ghosts.
• The coffee maker burbles to life when I press the button. It's old and loud, but the noise is comforting in the empty apartment. The smell fills the small space, cheap but familiar.
• A car horn blares outside. Someone shouts. The walls in this building are so thin I can hear my neighbor's TV, the couple fighting upstairs, the baby crying next door.
• I pour coffee into my chipped mug and take a sip. It's bitter and strong.
• "Today will be different," I tell myself. "Today I'll get the job."
• I've been saying that for weeks. Ten interviews, ten rejections. But this one has to work out. It has to.
• I open my closet and stare at my options. Not much to choose from. I pull out my only decent blouse: white, slightly yellowed at the collar. My black pants have a small stain near the pocket that I hope won't be noticeable. I iron them carefully on my bed, using a towel underneath.
• "Professional. Confident. Capable." I repeat the words as I dress.
• The mirror shows dark circles under my eyes. I look tired. I am tired. Tired of struggling, tired of starting over, tired of being one paycheck away from homeless.
• I lean closer to the mirror and apply concealer under my eyes. Foundation to hide the stress breakout on my chin. Mascara to make me look awake.
• "Hi, I'm Ava Thompson," I practice, forcing a smile. "I'm reliable and hardworking."
• The smile doesn't reach my eyes.
• I try again. "Hello, I'm Ava. I have five years of experience in food service."
• Better, but still not convincing.
• My phone buzzes. It's a reminder for the interview: fast food place, assistant manager position. Not my dream job, but it would pay the rent.
• I gather my papers: resume printed at the library, references I hope will still vouch for me, ID that expires next month. Everything goes into my worn leather bag, another relic from better days.
• "I can do this," I say to my reflection. "I'm strong. I'm capable."
• The words feel hollow, but I keep saying them.
• "I've survived worse. I can survive this too."
• That, at least, is true.
• I eat a piece of toast standing up, watching the clock. The bus comes in twenty minutes. If I miss it, I'll be late, and I can't afford that.
• My hands shake as I put on my coat. It's too thin for the cold, but it's all I have. I check my wallet, just enough for bus fare there and back.
• "You got this, Ava," I whisper. "One step at a time."
• I lock the apartment door behind me, though there's nothing much worth stealing inside. Force of habit. The stairwell smells like cigarettes and something else I don't want to identify.
• Outside, the wind cuts through my coat. I pull it tighter around me and walk faster.
• The bus stop is crowded with people heading to work. Everyone looks as tired as I feel. We don't make eye contact. We just wait, shifting from foot to foot to stay warm.
• I check my phone. One hour until the interview. One hour that could change everything.
• "I'm qualified. I'm reliable. I need this job," I practice under my breath.
• The bus appears at the end of the street. I take a deep breath.
• "I can do this," I say one more time as I enter. "I have to do this."
• Because if I don't get this job, I don't know what I'll do next.
• The bus hits a pothole, and the jolt sends me back. Just like that, I'm not here anymore. I'm thirteen again, and the sound of gunfire is exploding through our apartment. Mom is screaming my name. Dad is shouting for us to run.
• My hands start to shake, and I grip my bag tighter. Not now. Not today.
• But the memory doesn't care what I want.
• The first shot was so loud. I remember covering my ears.
• Then more shots. One after another after another.
• "Ava! Hide!" Mom's voice, high and terrified.
• I crawl under the bed. The carpet is rough against my palms.
• "Please, we can work this out." Dad's voice, trying to sound calm.
• More shouting. Words I don't understand. Something about money. Something about deals. Something about consequences.
• Another shot.
• A scream. Mom's scream.
• The memory jumps. Flashing lights outside our windows. Blue and red painting the walls of my bedroom.
• I'm still under the bed. I can't move. I can't breathe.
• Heavy footsteps. Men shouting.
• "Police! Everybody down!"
• Too late. Too late.
• The memory shifts again. I'm being pulled out from under the bed by a police officer. Her face is kind, but her eyes are sad.
• "Don't look, sweetheart," she says. "Don't look."
• But I do look.
• Blood. So much blood. The carpet is soaked with it.
• Mom and Dad on the floor. Not moving. Their eyes open but seeing nothing.
• "No," I whisper on the bus, my voice small.
• A woman sitting next to me glances over with concern.
• I close my eyes, but it makes the memory stronger.
• The smell of smoke. Someone was smoking during the shooting. The acrid scent mixing with the metallic smell of blood.
• Sirens wailing. So many sirens.
• "Why?" I asked then. I still ask now. "Why did they take them from me?"
• No one ever gave me a real answer.
• I remember being led outside, past neighbors who watched with horrified fascination. Past reporters already gathering.
• The police car was cold. The seat sticky. The officer kept saying I was safe now.
• Safe but alone.
• "Miss? Are you okay?" The woman next to me is speaking.
• I open my eyes. I'm on the bus. Not in that apartment. Not thirteen years old.
• "Fine," I manage to say. "Thank you."
• My heart is racing. My palms are sweaty. I wipe them on my pants.
• One, two, three, four, five. I count silently, looking at five things I can see. The dirty bus window. My reflection in it. The woman's concerned face. My hands still trembling. The stop button glowing red.
• Four things I can feel. The seat beneath me. My bag in my lap. My coat against my neck. My hair on my forehead.
• Three things I can hear. The rumble of the bus engine. Someone's music playing through headphones. A child asking questions a few seats ahead.
• Two things I can smell. Coffee on someone's breath. The driver's too-strong cologne.
• One thing I can taste. Fear, metallic in my mouth.
• The grounding technique helps. The memory recedes, fading back to wherever it hides until something triggers it again.
• I take a deep breath. Then another.
• "It's over," I tell myself. "It was long ago."
• The lie doesn't comfort me, but the routine of saying it does.
• I check my phone. Twenty minutes until my interview. Twenty minutes to pull myself together.
• I can do this. I've pushed the memories away before. I can do it again.
• The bus slows for my stop. I press the button and stand up, my legs steadier than I expected.
• "Thank you," I say to the woman who asked if I was okay.
• She nods, her eyes still concerned.
• I step off the bus into the cold morning air. The shock of it helps clear my head.
• The fast-food restaurant is just ahead. I can see the sign, bright and cheerful, promising jobs and opportunity.
• I straighten my back. Fix my hair. Put on the face that doesn't show the broken parts inside.
• The memory is locked away again. For now.
• I walk toward the restaurant, each step taking me away from the past and toward a future I desperately need.
• Even if it's just a job flipping burgers.
• Even if it's just a way to pay rent.
• It's something I can control.
• Unlike the memories.