On the first day back at school, the playground looked like a refugee camp with nicer paint.
Portable classrooms had sprouted in the parking lot. Ash still clung to the edges of the swings. Some kids wore donated jackets three sizes too big. Others still had wristbands from the shelter.
Albert parked the truck in the car line and turned to the back seat.
"Okay," he said. "New routine. I drop you two off. Melissa picks you up after she sleeps."
Maya hugged her backpack. "What if she doesn't wake up?"
"She will," he said. "If not, the cat will suffocate her with affection."
That earned a snort from William and half a smile from Maya.
At the gate, Melissa stood swaying on her feet, a to-go coffee clutched in both hands. Her eyes were ringed with that deep gray that said I've worked three doubles and pretended I'm fine for all of them.
"You don't have to be here," Albert told her. "You should be in bed."
"I'll sleep when they're inside," she said. "I already missed one night. I'm not missing this."
In the classroom, the teacher wrote two names on the board in neat block letters: MAYA HARRIS. WILLIAM JONES.
"We have some new faces today," she said to the class. "They joined us after the fires, and they're—" She hesitated, searching for a word. "They're siblings. Kind of."
Murmurs rippled through the desks.
At recess, a boy with freckles as bright as his curiosity parked himself in front of William.
"Why is your sister Black?" he asked bluntly.
William felt heat crawl up his neck. "Because… that's how our family looks."
A girl with glittery shoelaces tugged on Maya's sleeve.
"So your dad's white?" she asked, pointing. "Is he your real dad?"
Maya thought of the truck turning around in the fire-glow, of Albert's voice in the dark saying, I'm here.
"He went back for my cat," she said. "You can't be more real than that."
By lunchtime, they were the most interesting thing in class. Not because of their grades. Because they were what every kid suddenly was: a story about what happens when everything catches fire.
Back in the apartment, the soup was on again.
It had started with pasta and carrots and a cube of bouillon. Each day, it became something different. Sometimes Melissa added leftover rice. Sometimes Albert threw in a lonely potato. Sometimes William experimented with too much pepper.
They kept it in the biggest pot they owned, adding water whenever it got low.
"Isn't this like… illegal?" William asked once, peering suspiciously into its depths. "Soup isn't supposed to be immortal."
"It's called not wasting food," Melissa said. "And it tastes better when more people have stirred it."
"That's not science," he muttered.
"Maybe not," she said. "But it's how families work."
On Melissa's rare mornings off, she moved around the kitchen like someone whose body had forgotten what rest felt like. She made breakfast, packed lunches, checked homework, and called the insurance company all before nine.
Then she looked at the clock and realized she had five hours to sleep before the next twelve-hour night shift.
"You go lie down," Albert told her, taking the dish towel from her hand. "I've got it."
"I should be with them," she protested. "Night is the scary part, but day is when they need routine."
"You're human," he said. "Humans sleep."
"Some of us," she muttered.
That evening, she was in the kitchen when her body finally decided enough was enough.
One minute she was standing over the simmering pot, watching the bubbles break on the surface. The next, her eyes were closing, knees going soft.
Albert caught the pot handle before it tipped and slid it off the burner.
"Hey," he said, turning the stove off with one hand and steadying her with the other. "You're done. Sit."
She blinked at him, confused. "What time is it?"
"Time for you not to burn the building down," he said. "Come on."
He guided her to the couch, pulled the thin blanket over her, and left the lamp on.
When she cracked her eyes open an hour later, William and Maya were sitting at the table, whispering fiercely over homework. The soup pot sat in the center like a small, steaming sun.
She watched them for a minute, warmth spreading through her in spite of the exhaustion.
She almost believed they'd be okay.
That night, as she waited for an elevator that smelled like bleach and fear, Melissa checked her phone.
A news alert flashed.
STATE CONSIDERS CUTTING DISASTER RELIEF.
SOME TEMP HOUSING PROGRAMS MAY END EARLY.
Her stomach dropped.
If the program ended early, they wouldn't have three months.
They might not even have two.
She stared at the headline so long she didn't notice the elevator doors had opened until someone cleared their throat behind her.
"Long night?" a coworker asked.
"Long everything," she said, slipping the phone back into her pocket.
At home, William was not asleep.
He'd been looking for a binder he could have sworn he'd put under the couch when he found the envelope.
His father's name and their old address were printed on the front in familiar, looping script.
Grandma Jones.
He knew he shouldn't.
He opened it anyway.
The letter was three pages, written in that careful way older people had when they still believed every word mattered.
Dear Albert,
We were relieved to hear you and William are safe after the fires. We've been praying for you both.
We're worried about the situation you described. "Sharing space" with some woman and her child… it doesn't sound stable.
William's eyes scanned the lines faster and faster.
If you want William to have a secure environment, you know you can always come home.
We have space. We can help.
As for the woman and her child, they are not your responsibility. They are not your family.
The words blurred.
William folded the letter, unfolded it, folded it again.
In the next room, Maya was humming under her breath as she brushed her teeth. Mr. Whiskers thumped his tail against the bathroom door.
On the fridge, the house rules stood in crooked lines:
1.Everyone waits to eat until everyone's here.
2.No slamming doors.
3.Everyone's allowed to cry.
William slid the letter under a cereal box, like hiding it would make it less real.
He knew he should throw it away.
He also knew his dad would notice if that handwriting stopped arriving.
He stared at the cereal box for a long time.
The apartment felt even smaller than usual, the walls pressing in with the weight of a question he wasn't ready to ask.