The mattress in the corner of Iris's living room was the most comfortable thing Calla had touched in weeks. Not because it was soft — it wasn't, not really — but because it didn't creak with warning or smell like rot or promise to disappear overnight. It was here. It was steady. That was rare.
Benji was sprawled beside her, head on the lavender pillow, his mouth open slightly as he dozed in a post-shower, post-stew coma. The red feather he'd carried all day rested beside him, tucked against his chest like a badge of honor.
Iris moved quietly through the kitchen behind them. The sound of a dish being set in the drying rack. The gentle shuffle of slippers on tile. Nothing sudden. Nothing sharp. It reminded Calla of how her mom used to move when she didn't want to wake them before early shifts — careful. Tender. Human.
Calla didn't trust it.
She sat up slowly, trying not to wake Benji, and walked over to the kitchen. Iris stood at the counter, pouring the last of the tea into a mug shaped like a cat's head.
"I thought nurses were always working," Calla said, her voice still hoarse from the cold outside.
Iris chuckled. "I am. Just got off. Every third Sunday I crash hard and pretend I'm not about to go back in the next morning."
Calla nodded slowly, then cleared her throat. "How old do I look?"
Iris glanced sideways at her. "Fourteen. Maybe fifteen. Too young to be this good at surviving."
Calla raised an eyebrow. "That's weirdly accurate."
Iris smiled into her mug. "I've got nieces. They lie just as badly."
Benji stirred behind them, rolled over, then stilled again. Calla leaned her elbows on the counter, her fingers picking at a chip in the tile.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked finally. "Helping us. Most people… they don't even look. They just… see us and look away."
Iris leaned back against the fridge, arms crossed, the steam from her tea curling past her cheek like a slow breath.
"You want the honest answer?"
Calla nodded once.
"Because I know what it's like to feel disposable. And because I got room."
Calla said nothing.
Iris continued, softer this time. "It's not charity. It's not guilt. I like the quiet, but I get lonely too. You two aren't just mouths to feed. You're good company."
Calla studied her. "You sure you're not just bored?"
"Deeply," Iris said with a smile. "But that's not the only reason."
She took a sip of tea, then hesitated before adding, "You ever thought about going back to school? Real school, I mean."
Calla tilted her head. "You mean, like... with desks and bells and bullies?"
"Yeah. That kind of school."
Calla gave a dry laugh. "We don't exactly have addresses. Or clean records."
"There are ways," Iris said. "Or… if you'd rather stay under the radar, I could help homeschool you on my off days."
Calla blinked. "You'd… do that?"
"I'm not saying it's a full curriculum," Iris said, raising a hand in mock defense. "But I could teach you how to do taxes. Patch wounds. Use real herbs, not just band-aids. Read boring but important books."
"You could teach Benji how to swear in Latin."
Iris grinned. "Exactly."
Calla leaned back and looked toward the window. The sun was higher now, pushing through half-closed blinds in bars of gold and shadow. Dust danced in the light like tiny truths.
"What if we're just passing through?" she asked quietly.
"Then you pass through," Iris said. "But while you're here, you're safe. You've got a place at the table. And if that turns into one more night, and one more… then great."
Calla didn't answer. She didn't know how. No one ever offered permanence before. Not even maybe-permanence. It felt like a storybook thing — something people said before they vanished. Still, it made her chest hurt in a strange, aching way.
Later, they walked to the corner store together. Iris needed rice and a bulb for her living room lamp. She offered to go alone, but Calla insisted on tagging along. Part of it was habit — you didn't leave yourself in someone else's space for too long. Part of it was that the apartment felt too soft, too quiet without her brother awake.
Benji stayed behind, curled under a blanket with a crossword book Iris had pulled out of nowhere. "These are impossible!" he'd yelled, before settling in anyway.
The walk was brisk. The sidewalks were still damp from last night's rain, and the gutters were filled with candy wrappers and crushed soda cans. Calla walked a step behind Iris, hands in her pockets, hood up.
"You don't talk much," Iris said casually.
"Talking gets you noticed."
"Fair."
They passed a bus stop where a man was dancing to music only he could hear. A woman nearby sold tamales out of a cooler for $2 each. A cop car rolled by without slowing, its presence enough to make everyone straighten just a little.
At the store, Iris paid in cash and didn't ask Calla if she wanted anything — she just grabbed two packs of peanut butter crackers and tossed them in the bag like it was nothing.
"Emergency rations," she said with a wink.
Calla nodded. "Thanks."
She didn't say more, but the warmth in her chest was back — unwanted but undeniable.
When they returned, Benji was asleep again, the crossword book covering his face like a failed magic trick. Calla sat beside him on the mattress, watching him breathe.
Iris sat in the armchair nearby, flipping through a tattered gardening book. The lightbulb in the living room lamp flickered once, then settled.
"You can stay as long as you want," she said quietly.
Calla didn't answer right away. She traced a finger along the edge of the sketchbook in her lap.
"We don't get to stay anywhere long."
Iris turned a page. "Maybe this time's different."
"Maybe," Calla echoed, soft as the dust in the sunlight.
But maybe was more than they'd had in a long time.
Calla woke to the sound of birdsong.
Not the loud, echoing kind from high rooftops or train yards — not pigeons. This was something sweeter. Sparrows, maybe. Faint and warbling just beyond the cracked window frame, as if even the birds weren't sure if they were supposed to be here.
She didn't move at first. Just listened.
Benji was still asleep beside her, half-buried under the navy blue blanket Iris had given them. He'd kicked off his socks sometime in the night, and his feet poked out at awkward angles. One arm flopped across the sketchbook he'd borrowed — not Calla's — one from Iris's shelf, filled with blank pages and already scribbled dreams.
The corner of his mouth twitched as he dreamed. He looked peaceful. Young.
Too young for the things they'd been through.
Calla sat up slowly, pushing the blanket back, careful not to wake him. The floor was warm beneath her feet — old but clean. The kind of clean that came from habit, not show. She padded quietly to the bathroom, washed her face, then found Iris already in the kitchen, tying a scarf around her hair.
"You sleep?" Iris asked, not turning away from the pan she was watching.
Calla nodded. "Better than usual."
Iris smiled faintly. "Good. You like eggs?"
Calla blinked. "Like… for breakfast?"
"No, for juggling." Iris shot her a grin. "Yes, for breakfast."
Calla hesitated. "Yeah. I like eggs."
"Good." Iris cracked two into the pan, then three. "Because we're having breakfast with names."
Calla frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means I'm making it, you're eating it, and we're not rushing out the door. Things with names deserve time."
Calla didn't understand, but she didn't argue.
By the time Benji wandered in — hair sticking up, dragging the red feather in one hand like a toy — the table had plates. Real ones. Not paper. Not scraps. Ceramic plates, with toast and eggs and even a couple sliced strawberries.
Benji gasped. "This is fancy-fancy."
"Only the fanciest for the Queen of Hearts," Iris said.
He sat down, eyes huge, and then, just before picking up his fork, said, "Do we say thanks first?"
Calla blinked. They hadn't done that in a long time.
Iris nodded gently. "If you want."
So they did.
Benji mumbled something under his breath that might've included the phrase magic toast powers, and Calla just bowed her head for a second and said, Thank you for this moment.
It felt weird. But good-weird.
After breakfast, Iris cleaned while humming something that sounded like an old church song but without the sadness. Benji made a game out of matching socks from the laundry basket, even though half were orphans. He gave them new partners and new stories.
"This one," he said, holding up a blue and a green sock, "are divorced but still friends."
Calla sat on the couch, brushing crumbs off her lap, watching it all like it was a movie.
"Want me to do your hair?" Iris asked, appearing beside her with a wide-toothed comb.
Calla froze.
Her hair had gone uncombed for days. Weeks, maybe. It was always one of the first things to go. Not because she didn't care — but because it stopped mattering. No mirrors. No time. No point.
She almost said no.
But then she thought of her mom. Of sitting between her knees on the floor while she parted strands with gentle hands, humming something half-Spanish, half-lullaby.
Calla nodded.
Iris sat behind her, comb in hand. She didn't say much — just worked slowly, detangling bit by bit, not pulling hard, not judging.
"You got good texture," Iris said. "Stubborn strands. Like you."
Calla felt tears threaten and blinked them back. She didn't speak.
When Iris finished, she tied the top half of Calla's hair with a simple clip and handed her a mirror from the counter.
It was nothing fancy. But it looked… real. Like someone had seen her. Like she wasn't just surviving. She was living, just a little.
That afternoon, Benji drew superheroes in his sketchbook — one called "Captain Leftovers" who made meals out of scraps, and another named "Queen of Hearts," whose only power was making people like each other. Iris laughed when she saw them, then added her own: "Nurse Knockout," who defeated enemies with vitamin C and sass.
Calla didn't draw. Not yet. But she wrote. She scribbled a small list in the back of her own book:
TODAY
Ate eggs
Didn't flinch
Let someone touch my hair
Benji laughed (twice)
I felt… okay
The sun dipped low in the sky. No alarms. No shadows. No bags packed. No escape plans whispered under blankets.
Just a home — temporary or not — filled with sounds that didn't hurt.