Weeks passed. Or maybe months. Time got slippery when every day looked the same.
The shelter had a rhythm, a tired heartbeat of its own. Lights on at seven, soup at noon, cots at night. The same volunteers with their forced smiles and secondhand sympathy. The same cracked tiles and flickering lights. It wasn't home. But it was a roof. A bed. A space to breathe.
Mira never left my side.
She started slipping into my cot at night. Curled up like a kitten, always cold, always with one hand fisted in my shirt. Like if she let go, I'd disappear. Maybe she was right.
I didn't talk much. Not to the others. Not to Mira, even. But she didn't seem to need me to. She'd chatter through the quiet like she was filling the space between heartbeats.
"Did you know turtles can breathe through their butts?"
"I named my left mitten. Her name is Susan."
"You don't laugh enough. I'm gonna fix that."
I let her talk. Let her hold my hand when we crossed the street. Let her drag me into sidewalk chalk games and soup kitchen singalongs and cardboard castle-building contests. It didn't matter if I was broken. Mira never seemed to notice.
Sometimes I thought about Kade.
But mostly, I didn't.
---
It was a Thursday when I saw it.
We were coming back from a donated coat drive. Mira had scored a too-big hoodie that swallowed her whole, the sleeves dragging like sad, gray wings. She loved it immediately.
"I look like a bear!" she said, stomping around the sidewalk.
I laughed. Actually laughed. It hurt.
That's when I noticed her slowing down. Her head turned sharply, eyes flicking toward an alley a few steps behind us. I followed her gaze.
A group of older teens—three boys in sagging jeans and oversized hoodies—were leaning against a graffiti-tagged wall. One of them gave Mira a little wave. Not friendly. Familiar.
She waved back.
Before I could react, she trotted over.
My stomach turned to ice.
"Mira!"
She was already at his side. The boy knelt and spoke to her, and this time I caught it.
"You know what to do, yeah?"
She nodded solemnly and held out her hand. He placed a tiny ziplock bag in it. Not candy. Not anything a child should touch.
I crossed the street so fast I barely remembered looking both ways.
My voice was sharp. "Give that to me. Now."
Mira flinched but obeyed. Her wide eyes flicked between me and the boy, unsure who to be more afraid of.
The boy looked me up and down. "You her mom or something?"
"No," I said coldly. "I'm worse."
He smirked like I was a joke. "She does good work. People trust kids. They don't check their pockets. She just walks up, makes the drop, walks away. Clean."
I stepped between him and Mira, my body trembling. Not with fear.
With rage.
"You've been using her. She's four years old."
"She's not complaining."
"She doesn't know what it is!"
He shrugged. "She gets warm meals and candy. She's fine."
"Not anymore."
He took a step forward, eyes narrowing. "You gonna stop us, Snow Lady?"
I didn't blink. I didn't flinch. I just continues to stare into his eyes.
He spat at the ground near my feet, then turned and stalked off with the others, muttering something about crazy bitches.
I turned to Mira.
She was clutching her hoodie with both fists now, lip trembling.
"I didn't know it was bad," she whispered.
I crouched and cupped her cheeks in my palm. "I know, baby. I know. But I need you to tell me—how long?"
She sniffled. "Since before I met you. Mr. Lou didn't know. He told them to stay away but they came back. They said they'd be mad if I stopped."
I pulled her into my arms and held her tight.
"No more," I said. "I promise you. No one uses you like that again. Ever."
That night, I let her cry into my shirt. I didn't stop her. I didn't say it was okay.
Because it wasn't.
But we were still here.
And from now on, I was going to make damn sure we stayed safe.