ã€ŠPower Struggleã€‹


 Chapter 1 â€“ The Morning Routine

    The sound of the announcer¡¯s voice growing in excitement near the end of the race woke me up before my alarm had a chance to go off. I looked at my phone. Only 5:38am. The sun hadn¡¯t begun to rise yet and the house was pitch black to save on the cost of power, The faint glow of the television flickered unevenly across the room, highlighting the cluttered corners of our studio apartment. It was cramped and grim, with the walls stained with a yellowish hue from years of neglect and the faint smell of damp clothing lingering in the air. The announcer¡¯s frantic tone filled the space, accompanied by the rhythmic thud of Dad¡¯s restless foot tapping against the worn floor. Great, his bets must be losing again. He really needs a new hobby, or better yet, permission to work again. Our studio apartment is on the ground floor of a crowded street. The sound of muffled conversations, the clatter of footsteps, and the occasional bark of a street vendor hawking goods seeped through the thin, graffiti-streaked walls. The noise of people-traffic never wakes me. It is constant hum, like background music to my life and can even be refreshing at times, only discouraging me by the many stories of desperate people breaking into houses to take any valuables they can. No amount of screaming for help can make it through the constant noise to get assistance. Or maybe the noise sometimes does get heard. Why would anyone risk harm to help somebody they don¡¯t know? Luckily, we don¡¯t have any valuables. We are safe from any criminal who does their research.

    I look across at Ernie¡¯s bed to see him lying asleep peacefully, his face calm and untroubled, looking as if he doesn¡¯t have a care in the world. My 12-year-old brother still sleeps with the soft giraffe toy Mum gave him as a young child. The mattress he slept on was sagging and thin, and the pillow barely looked like one anymore. Around him, there were small tokens of his quiet world¡ªa stack of crumpled drawings, a half-read library book with a folded spine, and the dim outline of a school bag he¡¯d patched together with duct tape. The soft giraffe, with its faded yellow fur and one ear hanging by a thread, was almost comically out of place in our harsh reality, but it was his. Maybe it reminded him of a time when things weren¡¯t so bleak. Next to Ernie, my youngest sister Roselyn¡¯s bed was unkempt, the blanket bunched up at the foot and her pillow askew. Her corner of the room was a clutter of clothes; tight jeans, cropped tops, and scuffed boots strewn haphazardly on the floor. The cracked mirror propped up against the wall was dotted with fingerprints and smudged eyeliner, evidence of her rushed mornings. Even in sleep, there was an edge to her expression, a restlessness that hinted at the fights we would inevitably have. Now at 15, she has taken after her role model of a father and I¡¯m very surprised to see her at home in bed right now. It is a Monday, I guess. Her boyfriend and his friends are a bad influence on her, and she no longer listens to anything I have to say. Dad wants to let her make her own mistakes to learn from. Secretly I think it¡¯s just another easy way to not have to parent his children with discipline though. In the far corner, Dad was sprawled on the couch, looking like he has been awake all night watching racing, gambling the little money we have away, while he is under house arrest and unable to get work. His face was illuminated by the television, the grey-blue light casting sharp shadows across his gaunt cheeks and unshaven jaw. The coffee table in front of him was littered with betting slips, an empty beer can, and the ash of a cigarette he hadn¡¯t bothered to finish. The digital clock above the television blinked ominously, counting down our electricity quota, its dim red glow a constant reminder of how precarious our situation was. Dad¡¯s loud sighs and muttered curses punctuated the announcer¡¯s commentary, his frustration palpable even before the race ended. He was meant to have been a very skilled engineer in one of the most stable jobs at United World working with Mum. 10 years ago, she simply didn¡¯t come home on the same day that he lost his job and was put under surveillance. He continues to refuse to tell us what happened, and we have to assume the worst about Mum. Dad is no longer allowed to leave the apartment, imprisoned at home because of the overcrowded jails and under threat of death if he ¡®tries to escape¡¯ by simply walking out of the front door. It is now up to me to go to school, work to earn money for food and power, and to take care of my little brother Ernie. It¡¯s a lot when I stop to think about it, but nobody else will do it for me.

    The racing announcer¡¯s voice suddenly stopped, followed by a cry of exclamation and the sound of the remote being thrown against the wall. There goes our daily quota for electricity. I remain lying in bed, still not wishing to have the anger aimed in my direction as an easier target. My eyes are pointed at the hole in the wall where a fridge must have once been. I start imagining all those years ago how wonderful life would have been. To have a storage box that keeps your food cold. I could eat all kinds of meat and cheese, have cold milk for cereal... the options are endless! Instead, my thoughts become miserable thinking the only food we have in the house is cereal, an apple and rice. Some creamy milk would go so well with that cereal! Water will have to do.

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    I started to get restless thinking about food and decided to get up and be productive. I rolled off my mattress onto the cold, wooden floor. The boards creaked under my weight; their edges splintered from years of wear. As I gathered up the scattered clothes, my fingers brushed against the rough fabric and a stray sock buried under a pile of jeans. The room felt a little less suffocating when it wasn¡¯t cluttered. Deep in thought about everything I need to do in the day ahead I tuned out the call of my name ¡°Victoria¡­¡± I scrubbed the clothes with detergent in cold water, the smell of the soap mixing wi8th the stale, smokey air, and hung them on the wobbly clothes rack that leaned precariously near the window. The thin fabric fluttered slightly in the cool breeze sneaking through a crack in the glass. ¡°VICtoria¡­¡± Rinsing the water from the clothes and washing the next article of clothing, I worked my way through the pile. ¡°VICTORIA!¡± Things will get easier next year when I¡¯ve finished school and can work full-time. ¡°Yes Dad?¡± ¡°Make sure this place isn¡¯t a mess like this before you go to bed from now on, ok?!¡± ¡°Yes Dad,¡± I mumbled as I continued washing. I¡¯ll earn a lot more money when school is all done. I will be able to have freedom from Dad and still take care of Ernie at the same time. Just a few more months now.

    Before her alarm went off, Roselyn swung her legs off the mattress, stretching with a deliberate elegance that seemed more suited to a catwalk than our dingy apartment. She walked over to the drying rack, inspecting my work with a critical eye. ¡°Why did you wash these? They were still clean!¡± she asked, handling the fabric of a top she¡¯d left mixed with her dirty clothes on the floor. ¡°You¡¯re lucky I wash them at all so that you have anything to wear¡±. She made a stubborn noise that sounded like a grunt, pulled a face at me and spun around to walk off and find some other jeans and a top to put on. As she was doing her hair her alarm started going off as a series of wolf whistles, the same as her message tone. Before she had a boyfriend, it was a bit of an inside joke about all of these guys having a crush on her whistling at her as if she could have her pick of any of them. A few years later, she grew a bit taller, her breasts a bit larger and the message tone is more of a representation of what she believes she is entitled to with her looks and popular status, rather than a joke anymore. I walked over by her bed and stopped the alarm. Ernie managed to sleep through it, so I gently rested my hand on his arm. ¡°Ernie it¡¯s time to get up¡±. He stirred peacefully and his eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep, but a soft smile crossed his face as he sat up. His innocence was a rare comfort in a life that felt so far removed from it.

    Suddenly there was a loud banging on the door. Roselyn grabbed her phone and bag and ran to swing the door open and rush out of it. That stirred Dad from his position lying on the lounge. He yelled at them for making such a noise and having no respect for their elders, but they were already gone. It was Roselyn¡¯s outspoken boyfriend Dom who was in my year at school and some of his friends... if you can call them that. Sam was Dom¡¯s human shadow. He lost his parents young and now does anything for a small word of gratification from Dom. Sabina is Roselyn¡¯s best friend, but they have a competitive dynamic that doesn¡¯t seem very healthy to me.

    No breakfast for Roselyn again. She seems to eat less and less. I went to the kitchen and made a thorough search for any food I might have forgotten about. As expected, I only uncovered some flavourless cereal and rice. Ernie had eaten the last apple for dinner last night. I poured Ernie and myself cereal, adding in water and we ate as I asked him about his day ahead. He hadn¡¯t given it too much thought, but since we didn¡¯t get to finish his assignment on the weekend, we will have to work on that after my job tonight. That added another task to my already busy day. I put on a smile and washed the bowls and spoons. I made sure Ernie packed his homework into his bag before saying goodbye to Dad. We opened the door halfway and walked outside, not taking Dad¡¯s lack of response too personally.

 Chapter 2 â€“ People Traffic

    The front door creaks on its rusted hinges as I carefully pull it closed behind us. The chipped paint and scratches on its surface tell stories of years of wear, and the metallic clink of the lock sliding into its place echoes faintly down the crowded street. Outside, the morning light spills across the wide main road, highlighting the uneven cracks in the pavement and glinting off the rain-slicked asphalt. The air is heavy with the mingling scents of vehicle fumes, the perfume of unwashed sweat, and the sharp tang of spilled gasoline. I tighten my grip on Ernie¡¯s hand as the surge of foot traffic sweeps around us, each passerby brushing past with a hurried pace that feels like it might pull him from my grasp. It¡¯s important not to leave the door too far ajar and invite strangers to push their way inside and help themselves with anything they want. There are always people on the street where the ¡®job¡¯ they are walking to is the house of anyone leaving their door open for too long. The door locks and I put my keys into my bag. Holding my brother¡¯s hand, we wait for a gap in the foot traffic and make our way off the front step into the crowd heading north along the road.

    The sun is beginning to rise, casting a hazy orange glow over the distant rooftops, but here on the ground, the light is filtered and dim. The crowd moves like a living organism, flowing with practiced disorder, each person weaving deftly to avoid collisions. The cracked asphalt beneath our feet is littered with discarded wrappers and cigarette butts, glinting dully under the growing light. A firm shove from behind propels us into step, our pace matching the hurried rhythm of the masses towards our school. It takes us about an hour of walking at this pace to reach school each day. I am sure I once appreciated the exercise, but now it¡¯s just a count-down timer to being late with all of the potentially dangerous hold-ups along the way.

    Walking with the crowd now feels mechanical, almost hypnotic. The buildings flanking the street rise like jagged teeth, their windows darkened by grime and curtains of dust. A tangle of electric wires weave overhead, their shadows forming an intricate web against the facades. The occasional shopfront breaks the monotony, dynamic billboards flickering outdated advertisements. It is a harsh, unforgiving environment, yet the city pulses with a powerful energy that pulls us all through this same routine.

    Even when people are walking in the safer neighbourhoods, they unfortunately can¡¯t bring out our phones to message friends, listen to music, or finish off a last bit of homework. It only takes one person in the crowd to snatch their phone out of their hands and even if they see who it is, there is no way to quickly go against the direction of the crowd and to catch up with them.

    I turned to Ernie, his gaze focuses directly ahead, despite the bustling figures around us. His small frame seemed out of place amidst the towering adults, and I tighten my grip on his hand to provide him with reassurance. ¡°We won¡¯t be able to walk to school together like this for much longer¡±. He nodded and let out a ¡°yeah¡±, his face betraying little. ¡°With me finishing school at the end of the year and looking for work full-time¡±. More nodding with silence. I decide to change the conversation. ¡°Have you made any new friends lately?¡±

    ¡°Everyone is really nice to me¡­ I don¡¯t need new friends though. I just want to make the football team and kick some goals,¡± he replied, his eyes lighting up with a rare spark of enthusiasm.

    That''s right¡ªhe has football tryouts at school tomorrow against all those older boys. I hope he doesn''t get disappointed if he doesn''t make the team. "I don''t have any classes late afternoon and will come along and watch the end of your tryouts," I offered.

    ¡°Thanks¡± he replied with a genuine smile. Our conversation faded into silence after that. Ernie is a quiet, easy-trusting boy and I have to make sure he doesn¡¯t get hurt too badly when he learns the harsh truths of the world.

    As we walk through one of the rougher suburbs, the crowded street began to thin as people enter their places of work along the way. The narrow sidewalks give way to broader, uneven stretches of pavement dotted with faded chalk drawings and crumbling steps. The air here was different¡ªheavier, carrying a sour undercurrent of neglect.

    Roselyn and her group come into view up ahead. Dom¡¯s swagger is unmistakable, his loud laugh punching through the ambient noise like a sledgehammer. Sabina fusses over Sam¡¯s shirt, tugging it out from where it had been tucked into his jeans. I notice that she didn¡¯t untuck his jeans from his socks, so she has a long way to go to improve his fashion sense. Some days they are dating and others quite distant. It seems like it is more affected by whether Sabina feels like she wants him as her boyfriend that day. If he wasn¡¯t such an idiot, I might feel sorry for him. Sam seems to like being included and if he doesn¡¯t care how Dom treats him to be a part of that group. I guess not caring how his girlfriend treats him is no different.

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    Dom and Roselyn were talking to each other before my sister¡¯s sharp voice pierces the morning air. ¡°Ernest, come and join us! Dom is talking about football tryouts tomorrow.¡± I started to panic inside. I thought that Dom wouldn¡¯t play this season, being so close to finishing school. He must be expecting to fail everything and have to repeat the year. It makes sense. He doesn¡¯t do the work or listen when he does attend class, and he won¡¯t have this sort of power over others when he leaves school and has to be an adult. ¡°He wants to know what position you¡¯ll be trying out for and to give you some pointers.¡±

    Ernie began to move forward eagerly, his face lighting up at the prospect of joining them. I put my hand on his arm and look him in the eyes sternly as he turned to face me. ¡°No Ernie¡±. My voice is calm but firm, and the unspoken warning in my eyes is enough to make him hesitate. He glances back at me, his hopeful expression dimming. He would have loved the chance to gain the approval of his sister¡¯s older boyfriend and to talk football, believing it to be harmless¡­ but I can¡¯t allow him to be drawn into that group of derelicts too¡­ Dom will have to find someone else if he wants more puppets.

    Needless to say, I wasn¡¯t the most popular person there right now. I try adjusting my pace to lose them, speeding up and slowing down, but they match my stride, determined to keep mocking me. Dom¡¯s laughter rings out again, louder this time, and I feel the weight of their taunts pressing down on me like a physical burden. In the end, I had no choice but to endure their criticism and sarcastic remarks for the rest of the walk. At least they are targeted at me and not Ernie. He looks a bit uncomfortable, but a lack of speech wasn¡¯t a change from his comfortable state anyway.

    The buildings around us loom taller, their cracked walls and boarded-up windows casting long, foreboding shadows. A group of homeless people sat slumped against the walls, their hollow eyes scanning the crowd with disinterest. The ground around them is littered with crushed cans and scraps of paper, a silent testament to lives spent on the fringe. I try not to make eye contact with any of them. They don¡¯t usually trouble students because we don¡¯t have any money either, but they get bored, and I never want to give them a reason to pick a fight with me.

    My thinking is interrupted when I hear my name being repeated in my sister¡¯s posh English accent. It is a part of her routine in making fun of me. ¡°Victorrria¡­ Victorrrrria.¡± She wasn¡¯t very good at the accent. It didn¡¯t stop her though. Now for the uncool teasing. ¡°Are you going to spend lunch in your library today Victorrria?¡± I am starting to feel a bit nervous. This isn¡¯t from the teasing. I can ignore Roselyn¡¯s sarcastic voice for hours without hearing a word she says if I want. No, this is something else¡­ is someone following us? I turned my head around both ways suddenly, scanning for anyone watching us or looking with a violent stare directed at us. As we pass by more homeless people, I try to check if someone is watching us, but I can only manage quick, fleeting glances. Anything longer feels too suspicious and likely to frighten Ernie.

    The brief eye contact I made while checking for someone who could be following us was almost enough to cause trouble as it is. It is close to impossible to tell for sure if someone is following us in crowds like this on the street, so carefully holding Ernie¡¯s wrist, I tug him forward as I pick up my walking pace. That brings more insults this time from Dom.

    ¡°Haha, look at how scared she is of you Rosy. Holding onto Ernest as if she¡¯s protecting him from something, when really, it¡¯s his touch keeping her calm from fright!¡± That comment hurt a bit from the truth that rang in it. Ok, I¡¯m definitely protecting Ernie from Dom and his manipulation, but there was something calming about not being alone and having Ernie there with me.

    We walk off, distancing ourselves from their group all the way to school. The slap of my shoes against the pavement feels deafening against the muffled roar of the city, and my heart pounds in rhythm with my steps. The school gates finally come into view, their chipped paint and sagging hinges a welcome sight. The building loomed ahead, its brick walls streaked with soot but standing solid and resolute. Relief washes over me as we step inside. As much as I am looking forward to the freedom money that a real job can bring, I enjoy school. I am able to learn new things about the world and to spend time with my best friend Claudia.

    Ernie smiles up at me, his innocence shining through despite the hardships we faced. But even as I returned his smile, the unease lingers¡ªa shadow I can¡¯t quite shake.

 Chapter 3 â€“ School Dropoff

    We arrived at school on time at 8:10am joining the long line of students ready to enter. The school stands like a fortress in the heart of the city, a towering 30-story building with sharp-edged architecture, its gray exterior streaked with grime from decades of exposure to the polluted air. The large glass entry doors reflect the morning light, though they¡¯re clouded with fingerprints and smudges from countless students.

    I reach into my bag and pull out toggles for Ernie and myself, their smooth, cool surfaces fitting neatly into my hand. The line ahead of us is packed with younger children, their faces a mix of excitement and apprehension. It¡¯s hard to imagine I once looked that young in high school.

    Ernie steps up to the scanner, using the device to input his six-digit code. He carefully types the numbers, and the faint beep of confirmation is followed by a green light. Holding his head high, he waits for the biometric scan. Another green light flashes, and the gate clicks open, allowing him to pass through. I follow right after, punching in my own code with practiced speed and directing my face towards the camera. The gate grants me entry with a metallic clunk as the toggle¡¯s faint hum disappears back into my bag.

    Security officers, dressed in crisp navy uniforms, approach us at the next checkpoint. Their faces are stern, their gazes scanning the line with practiced precision. We empty our pockets into trays before sliding our bags onto a conveyor belt. The dull whir of the scanning machine fills the air as the metal detectors hum quietly in the background. The walls around the checkpoint are bare concrete, marked with numbered signs and scratched graffiti that no one bothers to remove. We walk through the arch, its sensors beeping faintly with each student¡¯s movement. After collecting our belongings, we step into the final stage of security¡ªthe radiation scanners for traces of explosive materials.

    The fluorescent lights overhead flicker erratically, casting harsh white light on the cold, tiled floors. The sterile smell of cleaning agents mingles with the faint scent of metal as the machine swabs my backpack. My shoes squeak against the polished floor as I raise one foot onto the bench, then the other. The security officer gestures for me to raise my arms, checking my sides, front, and back with brisk efficiency. The sharp click of his nod signals the ¡®all clear,¡¯ and I rejoin Ernie, who waits patiently nearby.

    It¡¯s amazing to think that schools and even airports once didn¡¯t have any of these precautions. All of those school shootings, bombings, terrorist attacks and no one had the brainpower to increase the security? One day, I hope to fly a plane and visit a different country. I¡¯ll never be able to afford it myself of course, but maybe I¡¯ll get a job someday that will give me the opportunity to travel¡­ anywhere. We are so disconnected from the rest of the world in Australia, as an island nation, and with United World geographically restricting the internet reach to save power. Snow looks so magical in the movies I¡¯ve seen; Switzerland or Austria would be incredible! I am close to fluent in German and Chinese so it¡¯s not inconceivable.

    The hallway ahead is a narrow, dimly lit corridor. Rows of lockers line the walls, their paint peeling and doors dented from years of abuse. The crowd of students jostles and chatters, their voices amplified by the echoing acoustics of the building. The air feels heavy, weighed down by the lack of natural light and the ever-present hum of security cameras mounted in every corner. A boy waves to Ernie as we pass, and two girls call out cheerful greetings, their smiles wide and eager. Ernie just maintains his typical carefree smile, his happy expression unwavering as he follows me. I smile inwardly. He¡¯ll have to be careful¡ªgirls like that will take over his life if they get half the chance. I don¡¯t want him ending up like Sam did with Sabina.

    We ascend the eight flights of stairs leading to Ernie¡¯s classroom. The stairwell is narrow and windowless, the concrete walls smudged and worn from the touch of years of dirty hands and the scuffs of passing shoes. A dim, flickering emergency light casts an eerie glow over the steep, worn steps. His classroom door, slightly ajar, reveals many rows of desks arranged neatly beneath a whiteboard smudged with marker stains. I give him a quick hug, goodbye. ¡°Be good this morning, Ernie, and I¡¯ll see you in the hall at lunchtime.¡±

    ¡°I will,¡± he replies, his voice light with promise. He steps inside, joining a small group of students animatedly discussing a futuristic world where people live in space. I don¡¯t think he ever contributes much to the conversation, but he always looks genuinely happy to be part of it.

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    I walk back to the stairwell, leaning against the cold metal railing as I wait for Claudia. The stream of students moving past me is a blur of faces, uniforms, and hurried footsteps. While I wait, my thoughts drift back to the uneasy feeling I had on the way to school. I need to tell her about it. It is not the first time I¡¯ve had this feeling of being followed and I have to tell someone. We have been best friends since first starting school and we have been through a lot of highs and lows together. Ever since she started dating Jono, we have been a bit more distant, but we still tell each other everything. It might sound crazy to anyone else, but Claudia won¡¯t judge me.

    She has been raised to be a strong female by her mother. Although she has always been too insecure to show me her house, I know her family really struggle to get by without her father and that she has led a hard life too. It is a part of what brought us together. We have never allowed ourselves to fall to the pressures and expectations of others around us. The importance of protecting our individuality may have cast us as outcasts from the many mindless sheep at school, but we have had each other and always respected each other¡¯s thoughts and beliefs that has made us who we are.

    I hope she hurries up. It is a 30-story building and being in our final year, the class coordinators decided we are able to make our way up to the higher floors. Our legs aren¡¯t really that much longer than the year 7-9 kids. I am sure they would manage it fine. There are also many offices leased out to academic research businesses on the first 10 floors. I can¡¯t imagine who would want to finish school to come straight back here!

    The sound of stylish ankle boots clacking against the steps snaps me out of my thoughts. A group of girls passes me, on the way to join my brother¡¯s class, one of them, a black-haired girl from Year 8, deliberately bumps into me. Her malicious stare lingers as she continues down the hall. I don¡¯t recognise her. It angered me for a few seconds knowing she will most certainly be just another follower of Dom¡¯s group, deflecting their hate towards me whenever they can. I hold the gaze of her stare without flinching. Saying something will likely start a fight, but I refuse to back down either.

    ¡°Victoria!¡± I turn back around at the sound of the familiar voice calling my name. There is Claudia standing by the stairs with Jono. I let go of my resentful feelings towards the year 8 girl and begin heading toward my best friend. Claudia flashes me a smile as Jono kisses her cheek and hurries off to his class.

    She joins me on the stairs, and we begin climbing together. ¡°How was your weekend? Did you do anything fun, or meet any cute guys?¡± she asks in a teasing tone. I grunt. ¡°You know that I had to study and do assignments all weekend, just like you. Oh and no, I didn¡¯t meet any cute guys at my boring job.¡±

    She raises a challenging eyebrow. ¡°C¡¯mon, really? I thought you said your boss was attractive? Something about his intelligence and the drive of having his own business?¡± ¡°No, not my boss,¡± I reply quickly. ¡°We barely even speak, and he¡¯s, like, forty! Anyway, I need to tell you something before class.¡±

    Anyway, I have something to quickly talk to you about before class. Do you remember how sometimes I feel like I am being followed?¡± She nodded slowly as the playful smile drops off her face into a serious look of concern. ¡°I had the same feeling all the way since Newtown. Every time I turned around to try and catch who it was though, they were either hidden in the crowd or maybe it was one of the homeless¡­ but that would only make sense if I only felt watched in the same location. It has been to and from work and on weekends in different places too. I don¡¯t know how worried I should be, or what to do about it.¡±

    We had been walking more slowly up the stairs since I had started talking and we stop mid-stairway as Claudia turns to face me directly with a determined expression. ¡°I¡¯m not saying that you¡¯re imagining it. I¡¯m not saying that it might not be dangerous and that you shouldn¡¯t be worried. Until you have actually seen a person following you, it is hard however to tell you that you should be panicking about someone who either doesn¡¯t exist or will never cause you any trouble. Maybe it¡¯s one of those girls who have a crush on Ernest, or maybe it¡¯s no one. Either way, you should try and just forget about it and not let it consume you until there is definitely something to worry about.

    Hmm, it is either brilliant advice or terrible advice. I decided that the best thing I can do for now is to try not to overthink the situation and go along with my best friend¡¯s advice. ¡°Thanks Claudia, you¡¯re right. I should just put it out of my mind. Maybe it¡¯s nothing, and I already have enough things to think about.¡± ¡°Like this renewable energy distribution assignment¡± she interposed. ¡°I don¡¯t care how they get it as long as there¡¯s more where it comes from!¡± We laugh, and the conversation shifts to schoolwork as we climb the final flights of stairs. The science classroom is waiting, its barred windows offering a view of the grey, sprawling city below, a stark reminder of how confined we are in a world that feels increasingly small.

 Chapter 4 â€“ Oversized Class

    The bell rings, echoing sharply through the cavernous classroom, signaling the beginning of class. Claudia and I take our seats near the front, sliding into the cold, hard plastic chairs attached to desks covered in faded graffiti; initials, doodles, and faint carvings of past students who long since moved on. The overhead lights hang uselessly, their bulbs long neglected, leaving the room in a state of perpetual dimness. The barred windows allow only slivers of daylight to filter through, casting faint, broken streaks across the worn desks. Our tablets provide the only reliable source of light for reading, but with their limited glow, nearly all instruction from the front of the room has to be delivered verbally. Mr. Klein stands at the front, his posture slouched, holding a stack of papers as his eyes scan the sea of nearly 200 students. He¡¯s waiting, his lips pressed into a tight line, for the rest of the class to settle down.

    I hate this. The longer a teacher stalls for late students, the more emboldened those students become to push the limits. Not that Dom would follow that logic. He, Sam, and Sabina are all in this class with me and are running late as per usual. Somehow, their absence feels louder than their presence. You¡¯d think three students in a room this packed wouldn¡¯t make much of a difference, but they seem to set the standard for what is acceptable for others.

    Due to the lack of qualified teachers, schools operate differently to how they used to. Gone are the days of small, age-specific classes. Now, Years 7 to 9 are lumped together to learn three years of material in one combined group, while Years 10 to 12 do the same. The system crams hundreds of students into a single room with one overworked teacher for each subject. It¡¯s an efficient method to address the shortage of qualified educators, but the overcrowding makes learning feel impersonal, like a factory line. End of school exams are more comprehensive because there are 3 years of final exams based on the material being taught that particular year. It does make the more senior students feel a lot more important¡­ but there are clearly students who love to abuse that power too. Despite the diverse age groups, Roselyn doesn¡¯t take science. I feel very lucky not to have that extra obstacle to overcome!

    I quite enjoy science, but most of my learning has to come from the course materials and research. Mr Klein knows his capabilities better than trying to convince a crowded class of teenagers that they would rather learn science than chat with their friends. He uploaded the course outline onto the school library¡¯s website, and it¡¯s set out well enough for me to work my way through it when we have power.

    I catch his eye briefly and there¡¯s a flicker of recognition in his gaze. I think he appreciates my quiet demeanor. I imagine teaching this class must feel like shouting into a void. I feel some pity for him. It would be easy to go crazy in that job. Despite the noise behind me, I resist the temptation to talk to Claudia and instead keep my focus forward. Mr. Klein, standing at the front, looks younger than most would expect. He would only be in his mid-20s of age, he always sounds quite sincere and is even a bit attractive with his short dark brown hair slightly unkempt and deep brown eyes hinting at intelligence and fatigue. He¡¯s of average height and carries himself with a quiet seriousness, though it¡¯s clear the enthusiasm for teaching has been worn down over time. I wonder if this was the job he envisioned for himself when he graduated university. He loves science, that much is obvious¡­ but whatever passion he may have had for teaching seems to have gone quickly!

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    A loud pounding noise cuts through the chatter as Mr. Klein slams a hand on the front desk and everyone¡¯s loud conversations get quieter. There will never be complete silence, but a class can be taught as long as those students sitting up front and willing to learn are able to hear. ¡°We have waited ten minutes for any latecomers, and I think it¡¯s time we start the lesson,¡± he says, his voice firm but strained with patience. ¡°Who remembers where we left off last week?¡±

    A boy to my left raises his hand at the same time I do. He didn¡¯t give me a chance to be chosen, launching into an answer the moment his hand shot up. ¡°We finished by discussing renewable energy distribution and any questions we had about our assignment on it,¡± he says confidently. Claudia rolls her eyes beside me.

    Mr. Klein nods, using the interruption to remind everybody about their major assignment. ¡°That¡¯s correct. We have an assignment due in two weeks and I hope everyone was working on it over the weekend. It¡¯s worth 40% of your final grade, and I can¡¯t emphasize enough how important that will be for university admissions or future work opportunities.¡± His voice is measured, but the weight of his words lingers in the air. I don¡¯t see how it could reallyy be that important. Who in this school has the money to afford university? The United World corporation provides the distribution of energy, and the only way to work there would be through university qualifications. Being my father¡¯s daughter won¡¯t exactly help to get me any special considerations for an internship there. I have tried endlessly to uncover the truth about why he lost his job, why he is under indefinite house arrest, why Mum never came back¡­ he couldn¡¯t even give us that closure! Maybe I should ask United World directly. Just turn up at their facility and¡­

    My thoughts get cut off as the classroom door is kicked open with a bang. It slams against the wall, silencing Mr. Klein mid-sentence. Dom strides in with Sam and Sabina trailing behind him like a self-important entourage. Their loud voices fill the room as they saunter to the back, ignoring Mr. Klein entirely. Dom grabs a football sticking out of another student¡¯s half-zipped bag and kicks it across the room. The ball ricochets off desks, scattering papers and drawing laughter from Sam, who knocks over the same boy¡¯s books to join in the mischief. Sabina smirks, her arms crossed, exuding a smug air of superiority.

    None of them seem to hear they have been told to stay back after class. I doubt Mr Klein will bother to enforce a punishment when it comes to it.

    Mr. Klein shifts his focus back to the assignment and expresses that obtaining information from different sources provides the best critical analysis and reliability of our essays. I raise my hand again. I still want good marks if only to show how different I am to the rest of the school. He looks surprised but points at me to speak. ¡°Would interviewing one of the United World leaders in the energy distribution division make a good source of difference?¡± I ask, my voice steady.

    A small, genuine smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. ¡°Yes,¡± he replies, his tone brighter. ¡°Interviewing topic experts is an excellent way to gather firsthand information. I suggest that many people try to follow the same approach to obtain reliable information for their essay.¡± I nod thoughtfully. Well, I don¡¯t want that. If everyone takes his advice, it¡¯s less likely they will say yes to giving me an interview too. I will have to try and arrange one soon.

    The rest of the class drags on, with Mr Klein pretty much just reciting what is written in the textbook. Having already read this chapter, it is hard to keep looking interested and by the time the bell rings, I¡¯m eager to leave.

 Chapter 5 â€“ Ernieâ€™s Lunch

    The school¡¯s three designated lunch floors hum with the usual midday madness. The lowest floor is packed with younger students, their voices high-pitched and eager as they jostle for space, while the middle floor is filled with the restless energy of Years 9 and 10, who feel important enough to not be on the first lunch floor anymore but are still fighting for their place in the school¡¯s social hierarchy. The top floor, where I sit, is mostly occupied by Year 11 and 12 students. Unfortunately, nothing is as orderly as having clearcut levels for our age groups and we still get younger kids on our level. Social groups such as the football team or the drama club might choose to sit together on the floor of their choice (usually ours) and the odd boyfriend or girlfriend from a different year will sit with their current crush.

    I mostly sit with Claudia and Jono. It¡¯s a crowded school, so even though we have our usual spot, the tables are packed with others who sit nearby more out of necessity than wanting anything to do with us. I don''t bring any lunch to school. We have little enough at home and I give Ernie the little bit of money that we can spare so that he can get the bare minimum at school. Roselyn, on the other hand, manages to do just fine with the number of lunches Dom steals from the younger students each day.

    I am feeling the hollow, dragging emptiness that extreme hunger brings as I mindlessly look over to the feast Dom¡¯s gang are spreading out over their table. It is quite a feast! Sandwiches, salads, muesli bars and fruit flavored drinks. My mouth waters before guilt kicks in, slamming against my thoughts like a reprimand. Instead of envying all of the delicious food I could be eating, I should be feeling sorry for the students who lost their lunches.

    Claudia breaks my train of thought with a question. ¡°So, Victoria, what do you think about Mr Klein? I blink at her, caught a bit off guard. ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°Well, you always want us to be quieter in his class while you keep catching his eye contact and do anything he asks you to do.¡±

    I react instantly. ¡°He¡¯s our teacher! I¡¯m trying to actually learn something useful in our little time left here. Maybe if we show some respect, people might still be willing to be teachers in this city!¡±

    Okay, he is pretty cute. And he doesn¡¯t seem that much older than me¡­ but he looks like he¡¯s lost whatever ambition he once had, and I prefer a man who challenges me. If I told Claudia even that much, I would never hear the end of it. So, I deny it completely.

    Smirking, Claudia doesn¡¯t let it go though and the girls sitting nearby who have overheard every word start to join in. This place is much too crowded!

    ¡°You don¡¯t act like that in Chinese class,¡± one of them teases. ¡°Just admit you have a crush on him.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s pretty obvious, Victoria. That eye contact you two share is really intense,¡± another chimes in.

    Before I can fire back, Jono cuts in, saving me. He no longer sits with his old group of male friends, but he hasn¡¯t lost his male perspective.

    ¡°Leave her alone,¡± he retorts easily. ¡°Maybe she has a crush on Mr. Klein, maybe she doesn¡¯t. If she is flirting with him, it might just be to get better marks for work next year, or she might just want to keep her crush private until she¡¯s finished with school and it¡¯s legal to date him. She doesn¡¯t need to know what she wants right now, and we have no right to know unless she chooses to tell us something.¡±

    ¡°Thank you, Jono¡± is all I could think to say as Claudia launches into a speech about how she was just teasing, and it was all in good fun. It won¡¯t be the last time she teases me about crushing on Mr Klein.

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    I like Jono. Sometimes I wonder how he and Claudia are right for each other. He¡¯s smart, diligent, kind, empathetic and cuter than Mr Klein. She is also smart, but easily distracted and more individualistic and confrontational than what I would call friendly. She also lacks giving appropriate responses and has a loud, funny humor. They are very different people.

    But maybe that¡¯s what makes them work. If they truly appreciate each other¡¯s traits because they don¡¯t have them themselves, they have something wonderful!

    My mind then goes back to all of Claudia¡¯s disagreements with Jono. Regardless of what she brought up, he just diffused the situation by either pretending to agree, or by changing the topic. Ok, maybe they still have a long way to go.

    The lingering silence from Claudia pulls me out of my thoughts. That¡¯s unusual. Her voice is usually a constant presence. I follow her gaze over to the lunchroom entry by turning my head to try and see what had silenced her.

    Ernie stands near the doorway, holding a piece of bread as his lunch. He has seen us but continues scanning the room looking for someone else. Then I see it. My stomach tightens as a boy waves at Ernie to come over to join his group and he starts to walk towards them.

    Of course, football tryouts are tomorrow and the whole team who are expected to get in are sitting with Dom¡¯s group for lunch.

    I push my chair back and stand instantly, knowing I have seconds before he takes a seat at that table. If I don¡¯t stop him now, it¡¯ll be much harder to pull him away later. Walking as quickly as I can without running, I march over towards the biggest group in the hall, where Roselyn has made herself so comfortably at home. My eyes lock on Ernie as he approaches Dom¡¯s group, and I manage to reach Ernie to grab hold of his arm firmly right as he arrives at the table.

    By the time I reach him, Dom and Roselyn have already shifted some people over, making room for him at their table on Dom¡¯s right. Sabina doesn¡¯t look happy about being nudged aside, but Sam and the other football players are grinning, welcoming him like a long-lost teammate. They had seen Ernie¡¯s talents in practice and just know he will be a star midfielder in their team.

    Dom leans back in his chair, his voice smooth and confident. ¡°Ernest, come and have lunch with us! You¡¯ll soon be one of us, a key part of the team and us teammates look out for each other, on and off the field.¡±

    Ernie¡¯s face lights up and he looks too happy about being included. As his mouth opens to speak, I pull him away by the arm before a life defining moment transforms him into a criminal. ¡°Ernie, you are coming to sit with me.¡±

    He hesitates with his mouth still open, his eyes deep in contemplation about whether he can successfully challenge me on this. ¡°NOW¡± I demanded, my voice leaving no room for argument.

    Pulling him by the arm, I keep my back straight and lead Ernie away from their table over to Claudia and Jono. I try to tune out the wave of angry mutters and insults being thrown my way from the group. I¡¯m a very good sister. I hope he can appreciate all that I do for him one day.

    As the insults fade, Dom¡¯s voice cuts through the noise¡ªcalm, clear, and calculating. ¡°No matter where you sit for lunch, Ernie, you¡¯re one of us now. You can come to us anytime. You¡¯ll always have a place here.¡± My stomach knots. This football team is going to further complicate my last months at school.

    Claudia pushes the girls next to us aside to make room for Ernie, and I guide him into the seat beside me. He doesn¡¯t argue.

    He doesn¡¯t even complain. There¡¯s a sadness in his expression, but also an understanding. He looks a bit sad but also has understanding on his face. He doesn¡¯t even complain or make excuses. He knows deep down that he shouldn¡¯t become a part of the same crowd Roselyn hangs around with. I¡¯ve told him enough stories about what they get up to, and how it will affect their futures.

    It is best to learn as much as he can while he is at school to get him the best paying job possible. Only money can buy him the luxury of freedom and enjoyment and it all starts here, at school. He stares into the distance, deep in thought as he quietly eats his bread.

    Claudia and I pick up our conversation again, shifting back to our science assignment and make plans to visit the local library this weekend to find some books on our topic.

    As we talk, I glance at Ernie, hoping this is enough to keep him safe a little longer.

 Chapter 6 â€“ The After School Job

    The rest of lunch and the afternoon go by without too much drama. The final bell rings, releasing a flood of students from classrooms as they spill into the corridors, their conversations blending into an indistinct roar. Outside the school entrance, I spot Ernie among a small group of his classmates, their faces scrunched up in exaggerated expressions as they take turns pulling ridiculous faces at each other and bursting into laughter after every attempt. I don¡¯t remember ever being that immature!

    When he sees me, he give a casual goodbye to his friends and trots over, to walk beside me on the way back home. We don¡¯t know where Roselyn will be heading or when she¡¯ll make it home, but I no longer have the time or energy to also keep an eye on her.

    The walk home from school is very different from the walk to school. Don¡¯t get me wrong, the streets are always crowded. It is just a different crowd after school, without all of the serious adults rushing to their jobs and the sun is still rising in the morning. Now, the streets are filled with students our age, their uniforms in varying states of disarray, mixed with younger parents safely keeping their children close. It is a lot like what I am doing for Ernie.

    The sun is higher now, casting harsh light against the rows of concrete buildings and reflecting off the uneven, patched roads. The distant hum of the city never fades, layered with the occasional shout from a street vendor or the sighs from an old transport vehicle struggling along the cracked pavement.

    It is a more pleasant walk. Ernie is his usual quiet self, walking beside me without much conversation. The only time he speaks is to ask whether I can help him with his history homework after work. I don¡¯t know where I¡¯ll manage to fit time in to cook dinner and work on my own assignment, but I agree. I want at least one other person in this family to have a promising future ahead of them.

    When we reach home, I unlock the door, ushering Ernie inside quickly before pushing my bag in after him to avoid leaving the door open longer than necessary. I was bumped a lot in the doorway again from pedestrians as people had started to finish work and crowd the streets again. As I lock the door again, I remind him to be good this afternoon and to complete his other homework before I get back from work.

    Now free from carrying a bag and without a child to supervise, I pick up my pace. With quick, purposeful steps, I weave through the crowds, making my way to arrive to work on time.

    My job isn¡¯t glamorous¡­ but then, part-time unskilled labor never is. The recycling plant I work at is a sprawling industrial zone filled with the constant grind of machinery and the overwhelming stench of decay. The air is thick with dust and the sharp tang of chemicals, mixing with the sour, rotting scent of discarded food remains.

    What I am hired to do is to sort through waste that the recycling sorting machine has discarded and organising rubbish into categories that will get the best reuse out of those materials. Truckloads of waste are dumped into massive piles, waiting to be sorted by hand and it is a never-ending task. That at least means there¡¯s always money to be earned if I want an extra shift. It¡¯s also the only money our family lives off, so needless to say it¡¯s an important necessity.

    I have tried to bring Roselyn along to work here too without success. Any form of work would interfere with her social life, and she doesn¡¯t even want to go through piles of rubbish when it¡¯s her own clothes on the floor!

    We aren¡¯t supposed to talk while we work. Our boss, Mr. Hydell, believes we work less if we talk. How can I describe him? He¡¯s tall, his black hair always immaculately styled, and his dark grey eyes carry an air of calculated observation. Though he appears young, the way he speaks suggests he¡¯s closer to forty. He is very direct and to the point. That would normally give you the feeling that he is open and truthful, but no one truly knows him well enough to be sure. Despite this, there¡¯s a quiet authority to him, a confidence that makes him a natural leader. He¡¯s built a successful business, and yet, for all his assertiveness, he is quiet and reserved, only using the words that he absolutely must. I don¡¯t really know much about him, and he is a bit of a mystery to anyone I¡¯ve ever questioned to find out more.

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    Anyway, even with the ¡®no talking¡¯ rule, there are occasional pieces of conversation between us if we have tasks on rubbish piles near each other. We just have to keep our voices lower than the machinery and our words brief.

    Among the hundred or so people working each shift, I have one ¡®work friend¡¯¡­ if you can call her that. Georgina. That is all we are though, having never socialised outside of work. We don¡¯t get to work near each other often either, due to the rotation of work areas. That doesn¡¯t bother me, I don¡¯t really get spare time. It¡¯s just nice to have a friendly face at work, if only to feel less alone when the sun sets, and it becomes dark and cold.

    This afternoon isn¡¯t one of the days we are able to work near each other. As I walk in, I catch sight of Georgina further down the line, already geared up for her shift. I gave her a smile with subtle hand movement that could have resembled a wave before being directed to my area for sorting this evening.

    The smell hits me immediately. There appears to be a lot more slimy, pungent waste throughout the recyclables today. It is not going to be a fun shift.

    Everyone has their own system for sorting. I prefer to start with the hard plastics before moving onto glass then paper varieties. You can¡¯t sort all of them one by one, but the hard plastics are usually the cleanest, without being too sharp. Glass is clean but is in smaller, sharp pieces and I leave the paper products to last because they are often coated in sludge and rotting food.

    I settle into a rhythm, my hands working through the piles, my mind drifting back into the events of the day and everything I still have to finish tonight. I still need to buy groceries. Purchase power credits on the walk home before hiding the rest of my pay. I need to cook some of that food for dinner. Then there is Ernie¡¯s homework to help with and my renewable energy distributions assignment if there is any time left.

    By the end of my shift, I¡¯m feeling even more anxious than when I started.

    We line up to tap our digital wallets for receiving our pay, and by the time I receive mine, Georgina is already gone. I keep two digital wallets¡ªone for show, one hidden.

    If I ever get mugged, it¡¯s better not to lose all of the money that our family desperately needs. But the real reason is Dad. He¡¯ll demand money for his gambling habit and to order more beer. That one is a different sort of mugging, but just as real.

    I take my private wallet from my left shoe and transfer the majority of my pay there, leaving only enough in my main wallet for a few groceries. Admittedly, it is not a lot of money. Given my age, and that the work can be done by anyone, it pays quite poorly. On top of that, groceries are expensive and my Dad will expect to see some money left over to take for himself. Keeping the first wallet in my pocket and tucking the hidden wallet back in my shoe, I start my walk home.

    It¡¯s past 9:15 p.m. and in the dark of the night, as I walk from the isolated area of the recycling plant through the streets. The crowds are thinner but more dangerous. The streetlights flicker, casting uneven shadows across the cracked pavement.

    As I pass a closed commercial area, I hear hushed voices ahead, followed by the sharp crash of shattering glass. I instinctively hold my breath. Adjusting my steps to keep them as quiet as possible, my soggy shoes from work squelch faintly. I pick up my pace, moving quickly past the sound.

    Footsteps echo behind me, and it feels like I am being followed again.

    I tell myself it¡¯s nothing. It¡¯s just other people heading home, just like me. But the feeling creeps back. The same unease that¡¯s been following me for weeks. Then again I tell myself, there are people still walking on these streets at this time, so I should expect footsteps.

    I keep walking at a faster pace, pushing the thought away, until I reach the grocery store. It¡¯s more than half-empty as usual, shelves barely stocked, prices too high. I grab some bread, cereal, and mushy fruit, pay quickly, and step back outside.

    A gang of men in black loiters near the entrance, their eyes scanning people as they leave. I¡¯m sure they would be happy with taking either my food or money. I don¡¯t hesitate. I move, but they see me.

    They start shifting, closing in.

    The sound of sirens lead the gang to scatters. The police work for United World, so their agenda is often a mixed one, but right now I would be very thankful for their presence. I am sure they are driving to store break ins, but this gang doesn¡¯t know that.

    I take my chance and slip away, walking quickly, keeping my head down. The streets are still lined with suspicious looking figures, lurking in dim corners, including my sister and Dom¡¯s group.

    I don¡¯t stop until I reach home, locking the door behind me and focus on breathing deeply. I need to be a calm presence for Ernie. I¡¯m safe now.

 Chapter 7 â€“ Home Sweet Home

    The lock clicks into place as I turn away from the door, the weight of the day pressing heavily on my shoulders. The dim lighting in the apartment casts long, wavering shadows along the filthy, peeling walls. The air is thick with the scent of stale cigarettes, cheap alcohol, and something vaguely damp, like old fabric left in a humid room for too long.

    Dad stands in front of me, blocking my way further inside, his frame casting a faint silhouette against the muted glow from the overhead fixture behind him. His posture is stiff, his expression sullen, carrying a dull resentment simmering beneath his tired eyes. His stubble is uneven, dark shadows lingering beneath his sunken cheekbones, and his wrinkled shirt clings to his thin frame.

    ¡°Pass me the wallet, Victoria,¡± he commands, his voice low but firm.

    I reach into my pocket, my fingers tightening slightly over the cheap synthetic material before pulling it out. He seizes it from my hand with practiced ease, barely giving me time to let go before he taps it against his own wallet. The small screen illuminates his face in a cold, blue glow as he selects his preset transfer address. His fingers, once precise and steady from years of engineering, now move with a weary efficiency as he taps decisively, selecting the maximum amount before confirming the transaction.

    A quiet chime signals the transfer. His eyes flick to the screen, scanning the amount received, and then they move up to directly meet mine, sharp and expectant.

    ¡°Is that all?¡± His voice carries the same discontent as his gaze.

    I start to explain to him about the rising grocery costs, about how even the cheapest food barely lasts us through the week, and he dismissively cuts my explanation short. ¡°I expect there to be more tomorrow, okay?¡±

    A slow burn rises in my chest, but I force my face to remain neutral. My lips press into a thin line as I give the faintest nod, unwilling to fuel another pointless argument.

    ¡°While you live under my roof, you need to contribute your part.¡±

    The words scrape against my nerves, lighting the spark of my frustration into something stronger. I grip my returned wallet tightly before spitting out my response.

    ¡°Roselyn doesn¡¯t contribute¡­¡±

    ¡°This isn¡¯t about Roselyn,¡± he snaps, his tone edged with impatience. ¡°It¡¯s about you. You¡¯re the eldest and almost an adult now. It¡¯s time to take some responsibility for your actions.¡±

    His words land like a slap, but I refuse to let them linger. I break eye contact and storm past him, heading straight for the tiny kitchen bench. With no proper storage for food, our kitchen doesn¡¯t consist of much more than this. A few mismatched utensils, a couple of chipped plates and two odd cups is all I can find at the moment.

    I grab the loaf of bread and a bruised apple from the small pile of groceries, setting them on the dull, chipped cutting board. I can¡¯t say that my mood does the food much justice on its presentation. The knife is dull, forcing me to saw through the bread rather than slice it, but it gives me some time before calling Ernie over to eat.

    We gather around the rickety table, and all eat quickly and silently, stewing on our own thoughts as we do. Although, to be honest, when we are hungry and have that little food, even pacing ourselves feels like we are rushing.

    The only sounds are the quiet scrape of utensils against plates and the occasional squeak of a shifting chair. Even Dad eats in silence, staring straight ahead at the bare wall, likely wishing he is anywhere else but here with us.

    As we finish, Ernie thanks me for the dinner, his voice small and genuine. For the first time that night, the tightness in my chest eases slightly. A faint outline of a smile ghosts across my face.

    I grunt back in appreciation of his gratitude. I really hope that he values what I do for him by staying in this house.

    Because if I ever leave, I don¡¯t know what will happen to him.

    Ernie and I sit on the worn-out couch, its fabric rough against my arms as I glance over his history assignment about Australia¡¯s involvement in World War I. His school tablet casts a dull glow in the dim room, its cold light reflecting off the scratched surface of the coffee table. Ernie leans forward, his small hands resting on the edge of the battered coffee table, his brows furrowed in concentration.

    He appears to be struggling with the concept of the war. A war fought without drones, satellites, or long-range precision weapons? The idea that soldiers had to physically go to another country, standing face-to-face with an enemy, risking their own bodies for battle¡­ it seems like a distant, almost unfathomable reality to him.

    I try to help him make sense of it. ¡°Australia joined the war on the 4<sup>th</sup> of August 1914, because Britain declared war on Germany,¡± I explain, tracing the date on his screen with my fingertip. ¡°But Australia didn¡¯t have a choice. As part of the British Empire back then, we were automatically involved.¡±

    He nods slowly, his brows drawing together in quiet contemplation as he processes the information, letting it settle into his understanding. ¡°Sixty-five percent of the Australians who participated ended up as casualties,¡± he repeats, trying to wrap his head around the staggering numbers. His voice wavers slightly, as if the enormity of it is settling in.

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    I hesitate before continuing. ¡°And it didn¡¯t help that Britain sent the Australians and New Zealanders, known as the ANZACs, to land at Anzac Cove on the Gallipoli Peninsula first, directly into the path of Turkish machine guns. The British soldiers weren¡¯t even the first wave; they held back while ANZACs were the ones scrambling up the cliffs, under heavy fire.¡±

    Ernie grimaces. ¡°That sounds¡­ stupid,¡± he mutters, shaking his head. ¡°Didn¡¯t they have a better plan?¡±

    I sigh, crossing my arms before resting my cheek against my hand, propped up by my elbow. ¡°You¡¯d think so. But British war strategists weren¡¯t exactly great back then.¡±

    I glance at his screen again, the bright text scrolling past as he speaks into the microphone of his tablet to piece together his report. He rearranges his notes, following a messy timeline of alliances, betrayals, and declarations of war. I know even less about helping him explain the war back to the assassination of an Austrian archduke in Bosnia. But following a timeline of which country declared war on which other country seems good enough for his report.

    This does not give me much time to give to my own assignment, but I can do some quick research. Okay, how does renewable energy distribution work? Looking on the internet on my phone, there seems to be a lot of information. I swipe through my phone, scrolling past government sites filled with vague promises and buzzwords. There¡¯s United World¡¯s official website, a Sydney-based scientific study by Mariana Montoya and even a documentary showing the statistics about population density, climate constraints, and the struggle to generate enough power for the country¡¯s demand. I doubt, however, that will answer enough of my more specific questions.

    It looks like I will start with that scientific article and see what else I can find tomorrow.

    Ernie lets out a satisfied exhale. ¡°I¡¯m done.¡± He holds out his tablet, his face expectant.

    I take it, scrolling through his paragraphs, scanning for any errors. His structure is improving, but his grammar still needs work. I correct a few inconsistencies before handing it back to him.

    ¡°Looks good. Just be careful with your punctuation,¡± I tell him.

    He grins, pleased with the compliment.

    I wish he was able to get these things correct on his own. That will do for tonight though. I¡¯ll have to see what I can get done on my own assignment at school tomorrow, or else I¡¯ll be stuck finishing it over the weekend.

    After brushing our teeth in the same kitchen corner, where the mirror is speckled with age, I tuck Ernie into bed patting him gently on the forehead before finding my own. ¡°Night, Ernie.¡± ¡°Goodnight, Victoria.¡± The mattress sags under his small frame as he pulls the thin blanket over himself, shifting around to get comfortable.

    The single mattress of my own bed creaks as I lay down. I get as comfortable as I can with so many things on my mind and stare up at the ceiling stained with water damage as I try to fall asleep.

    Outside, the city never sleeps. Loud voices echo through the night air, footsteps shuffle along the sidewalk, and distant sirens wail, faint, but ever-present.

    I roll onto my side to face the nearest wall, trying to push the noise away, trying to push everything away.

    Sleep doesn¡¯t come easily. But it¡¯s my responsibility to manage it all.

    I jolt awake, at the sharp, metallic click of the doorknob turning. The air in the room carries the faint scent of lingering cigarettes, mixed with dust and sweat from my restless sleep in our small enclosure. I am ready to spring to my feet as the door swings inward and in strolls Roselyn. She moves without a care, exhaustion clinging to her beneath the practiced facade that keeps her true feelings buried.

    What time is it? I fumble for my phone, the screen¡¯s glow piercing the darkness. 6:04am. Where has she been all night to only be arriving home now? I really can¡¯t take on the responsibility of watching over her too!

    She doesn¡¯t even glance at me as she kicks off her shoes, their worn soles thumping on the noisy floorboards, one after the other. Her clothes follow next, tossed haphazardly onto the mountain of discarded outfits she never bothers to put away beside her bed. She collapses onto the thin mattress, shifting just enough to plug her phone into the charger while we still have power today. The device''s glow cuts through the darkness, casting light over the tired creases beneath her eyes as she scrolls through whatever holds her attention. I try to fall back asleep, but find it hard to let go of my worry of how Roselyn is turning out.

    Her frequent soft little giggles to what she reads on her phone doesn¡¯t help me to forget about her either. Every sound keeps me anchored to my thoughts, unable to drift off.

    I sigh, staring at the low, water-stained ceiling. Food. We are well due to actually eat something with protein soon and I might need to pick up an extra shift this weekend for us to do that. The thought makes my stomach sink. That¡¯ll spoil my plans to finish my assignment this weekend though. Maybe I could skip an afternoon of school to work instead¡­ but then Ernie could end up anywhere afterwards, and he needs to be my first priority.

    The best solution would be for Dad to get a job again. He wouldn¡¯t have much choice, and he would need approval from United World to leave the house¡­ but he sits around doing nothing all day anyway. He really could work to feed his own family!

    My thoughts are shattered by a sharp, grating chime.

    I let my alarm ring longer than usual, so that Roselyn can deal with the consequences of staying out all night and barely getting any sleep. She doesn¡¯t move in the slightest. Dad doesn¡¯t move either.

    They both just lie there, pretending we don¡¯t exist, waiting for me to turn it off. I expect that Roselyn plans to just skip school today.

    I tap the screen, silencing the noise, but the tension in the room lingers. Roselyn still hasn¡¯t made a sound, her back turned to me.

    I already know the answer, but I ask anyway. ¡°Are you joining us and coming to school today?¡±

    She pretends not to have heard me.

    ¡°I said¡­ are you coming to school today?¡±

    She exhales loudly and turns her back to me, pressing her pillow over her ears in an attempt to block me out.

    I push back the thin blanket and sit up, my feet touching the cold floor. If she wants to ignore me, I¡¯ll make her answer me another way.

    I take a few determined steps toward her bed, but Dad''s voice slices through the air, rough and laced with irritation.

    ¡°Quiet down, Victoria. We¡¯re trying to sleep!¡±

    That answers my question. His presence is a dead weight in this house. Silent when I need support, loud only when he wants something from me.

    Fine. Let her waste the day. Let her sleep until noon and live in this endless cycle of avoiding responsibility.

    I don¡¯t have time for it.

    I glance across the room, and Ernie is already making his bed, smoothing out the thin blanket with careful hands. His gaze meets mine, and I offer him a small smile while I start to do the same with my bed.

    This is who I¡¯m here for, I remind myself.

    We pull on our school clothes and have just enough breakfast to quiet the hunger. With one last look at the apartment¡ªthe peeling walls, the cluttered mess Roselyn left behind, the silent figures still lying motionless in their beds, I push open the door.

    Time for our Tuesday walk to school.

 Chapter 8 â€“ Just Another Tuesday

    Holding Ernie¡¯s hand, we step out into the crisp morning air, the city¡¯s ever-present hum filling the space around us. The streets are already alive, workers rushing to their jobs, self-driving delivery trucks clogging intersections, and the occasional street vendor setting up for the day. The weight of another school week settles on my shoulders as we begin our usual route, step after step in silence, down the same cracked pavement we tread every day. The straight, unbroken path feels heavier than usual, an endless stretch of worn asphalt lined with lifeless concrete buildings. The air is thick with the stagnant scent of damp stone and the acrid sting of burning trash drifting from some unseen alley. Around us, the steady march of students and workers moves in quiet resignation, a slow-moving current of bodies all headed toward the inevitable.

    My mind drifts as my feet move on autopilot. It¡¯s funny how I can be this exhausted and still not manage to sleep because of my racing thoughts. Yet, when I need to concentrate in class, my body betrays me, and I am doing all that I can to not be dragged into sleep. The beginning of a week always feels endless, and this one is no exception. I really don¡¯t think I could keep living like this if the end of school wasn¡¯t so close. Just two more months until final exams. Then, at least, I¡¯ll have more time, and more money to take care of my family before figuring out my own future. Maybe I¡¯ll even get to sleep properly for once to recover my overworked mind and body.

    What am I going to do about Roselyn, though? If she refuses to work to gain experience and refuses to take school seriously to gain a valuable education, she will be out living with the homeless on the street as soon as Dom loses interest or moves his eyes on to a different captivating object of his desire. And she doesn¡¯t even have the kind of fashion or refined elegance to manipulate a rich man into taking care of her. I have maybe a year to find the right connections to help her establish a stable path with future prospects before it¡¯s too late. But where do I even start?

    I realize that my grip on Ernie¡¯s hand has become too tight as he shifts uncomfortably, trying to pull away. He wiggles his fingers in protest, and I quickly let go. ¡°Sorry, my mind was elsewhere,¡± I murmur, shaking my head back to the present.

    I wonder why I did that.

    We pass a cluster of homeless people huddled under a bridge, their ragged blankets and tattered coats barely shielding them from the morning cold. One of them glances up, and a shiver runs down my spine. That¡¯s what it is, it¡¯s that feeling again, the creeping sensation of having eyes following my movements. It can¡¯t be every time I go anywhere, can it?

    My thoughts churn, rationality battling the creeping paranoia that¡¯s been clinging to me for weeks. I remind myself that Claudia always jokes about United World having clairvoyant powers, that they can see anything they choose to focus on. She believe that¡¯s why Dad refuses to leave the house, despite not having a device that we are aware of tracking his location. He would know best about it. He did work there, after all.

    I need to tell her to stop joking about that. I can¡¯t afford to start believing in conspiracy theories.

    Now is not the time to start imagining magic eyes tracking me through the streets. But then again, I wouldn¡¯t feel like I was being watched if no one was physically here¡­ or would I?

    I frown at the thought. Ernie¡¯s group of friends would have great fun debating that kind of philosophical question.

    I speed up my walking, pulling Ernie along. He glances up at me with an inquisitive look, but he doesn¡¯t resist and seems to understand we are now in a hurry. The tension in my shoulders only eases when we step through the security checkpoint at school.

    School isn¡¯t a place where I usually feel safe. But somehow, behind the barred windows and thick concrete walls, the walls create a sense of separation from whatever is out there.

    Ernie rushes toward his friends the moment we clear the checkpoint, his excitement replacing whatever quiet concern he¡¯d been holding.

    ¡°Don¡¯t run in here, Ernie!¡± I call after him, watching as he disappears into the sea of uniforms. ¡°You¡¯ll hurt yourself or get in trouble.¡±

    He slows down slightly without looking back. I take a small comfort that he at least heard me.

    Scanning the hall, I spot Jono standing by the wall near the stairwell. His posture is flawless, and his sharp eyes scan the crowd with the quiet awareness he always carries. His uniform is neat, his tie perfectly straight, his black hair combed to one side in a way that makes him look like he actually cares. ¡°Hi, Jono. Have you been waiting long?¡±

    ¡°My parents left early for work, so I¡¯ve been here for about an hour. Nothing else to do but wait for Claudia,¡± he replies with a shrug.

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    An hour? That means he must have left home before dawn.

    ¡°I finished all my homework and even the assignments last night. I¡¯ll start studying for exams soon, but not this soon.¡±

    Exams. I haven¡¯t even begun to think that far ahead.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t get to do much last night,¡± I admit, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. ¡°And I don¡¯t expect to get much more done before the weekend either. You¡¯re lucky to have finished everything already.¡±

    Jono shrugs, his smile thin and unconvincing. ¡°Well, my parents make sure I¡¯m keeping up with all my schoolwork. They want me to study hard and get an engineering job.¡± He pauses, glancing at me. ¡°But I think developing video games sounds a lot more fun.¡±

    I scoff a small laugh. ¡°You¡¯d never have to worry about money with an engineering job.¡±

    I can''t help but feel a twinge of sadness remembering that Dad once had one of those...

    ¡°I suppose you¡¯re right,¡± he says, shifting his weight. ¡°It¡¯s good security for a family one day.¡±

    Before I can respond, Claudia arrives, breezing through the checkpoint, her long brown hair swinging as she walks. She looks mildly surprised to see both of us standing together. As she steps closer, her usual confident smirk tugs at the corners of her lips.

    "Patiently waiting for me? You should be thanking me for teaching you valuable life lessons," she says, her voice laced with its usual teasing lilt. She gives me a quick hug, then Jono, before tilting her head slightly. "You weren¡¯t talking about me, were you?"

    I raise an eyebrow, amused. ¡°Why? Would you be disappointed if we weren¡¯t?¡±

    Her smirk widens. ¡°Maybe a little... I¡¯m a great topic.¡±

    She can¡¯t resist adding a little drama to the conversation, not that I¡¯d ever admit to her that it livens things up a bit.

    With that, we all start the long, tedious trek up the stairs toward first period, Chinese class. The halls around us echo with the steady thud of footsteps, the occasional burst of laughter, and the steady murmur of conversations. The scent of stale air and yesterday¡¯s floor cleaner hangs in the stairwell, mixing with the odor of morning breath and sweaty boys.

    Despite the strange weight pressing on my mind from earlier, I let myself settle into the routine of the morning. Whoever was watching me, if anyone was, can wait.

    The Chinese classroom is a dull, rectangular space, the kind that feels more like a storage unit for students rather than a place of learning. In other words, it fits the theme of the school well. Rows of desks stretch out in rigid lines beneath the dormant lights, their absence of illumination casting a cold, sterile ambiance. The barred windows let in only faint slivers of sunlight, leaving the classroom steeped in dimness. It is far from an ideal learning environment, the darkness offering cover for mischief in the back rows. The air is thick with the mingling scents of aged textbooks, cheap ink, and the lingering traces of long-forgotten spills on the desks.

    I settle into my usual spot in the middle of the room, Claudia on my right and Jono one seat away from her. The chairs are hard and unyielding, their metal frames squeaking against the cracked linoleum floor whenever someone shifts. The large, dust-smeared windows barely let in the morning light, casting an uneven glow over the students who have arrived. Roselyn and Dom aren¡¯t in this class, but I already know that Sabina and Sam will show up whenever it suits them, slipping in just late enough to avoid attention but early enough to not be marked absent. Not that I have ever seen a teacher check which students are in attendance.

    Mrs. Zhang still hasn¡¯t arrived. The classroom remains in its usual state of mild uproar, low murmurs and the occasional burst of laughter bouncing off the echoing walls. I lean in toward Claudia, lowering my voice to share my morning suspicions once again.

    She listens, her expression tightening as her fingers idly twist the edge of her notebook, processing my words. Her questions come quickly, laced with concern. ¡°Who do you think it could be? Did you see anyone familiar? Have you told anyone?¡± Just as I begin to explain what I felt, she cuts in, her voice tinged with unease. ¡°You know, I¡¯ve been getting the same feeling too.¡±

    I tense at her words. It was one thing to have my own paranoia eating at me, but hearing Claudia say it so casually makes it feel more real, more pressing.

    ¡°We need to stop joking about United World watching us with their clairvoyant sight powers,¡± I say firmly, watching her reaction. She pauses, her eyes narrowing slightly as she considers this with a depth I wasn¡¯t expecting. ¡°Maybe that is what¡¯s happening,¡± she murmurs, more to herself than to me. ¡°We¡¯re both getting the feeling that we¡¯re being watched. With everything they¡¯ve invented to push the world¡¯s energy sources further¡­ I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if they¡¯ve come across other intrinsic types of energy.¡±

    Well, that doesn¡¯t help my mind at all.

    ¡°Maybe it is true,¡± I mutter, more to ground myself than anything else. ¡°But unless I can get it out of Dad¡­ which seems unlikely¡­ I won¡¯t know for sure, and I¡¯d rather not think about it or discuss it at all.¡±

    Claudia tilts her head, considering this before nodding. ¡°Fair enough. I¡¯ll try to do the same.¡±

    Jono, who has been quietly listening, finally speaks up. ¡°I haven¡¯t been getting that feeling of being watched myself.¡±

    Claudia¡¯s head snaps toward him, her voice sharp. ¡°Not now, Jono, leave it. Didn¡¯t you just hear us say we¡¯re trying to get it out of our minds?¡±

    Jono blinks, clearly caught off guard, then mutters, ¡°Sorry.¡± He lowers his gaze, pretending to focus on his notes for class, his fingers tapping idly against the desk.

    I watch the exchange in silence, pressing my lips together. Claudia can be hard on Jono sometimes. She has a habit of being abrupt, brushing him off without realizing how sharp her words can be. I consider saying something but ultimately let it go. Their relationship isn¡¯t my responsibility, and for whatever reason, it seems to work for them.

    Outside, the distant sound of the school bell chimes through the corridors, signalling that class is about to begin. The tension we feel fades into the background as Mrs. Zhang finally steps through the door, her stern presence settling over the classroom like a heavy weight. I take one last glance at Claudia and Jono before turning my attention to the front, pushing my anxious thoughts aside.

 Chapter 9 â€“ Chinese Class

    At the front of the dimly lit classroom, Mrs. Zhang stands with her arms folded, her short frame barely visible behind the taller students sitting ahead of me. The faintest slivers of daylight filter through the barred windows, casting thin, broken lines across the cracked walls. The overhead bulbs remain lifeless, their silence a testament to the school¡¯s failing power supply. Shadows stretch unevenly across the room, leaving much of it in murky dimness. Her jet-black hair, streaked with strands of silver, is pulled back into a neat bun, and her sharp, dark eyes scan the room with quiet disapproval.

    She clears her throat, her voice cutting through the dull hum of conversation. ¡°B¨£o ch¨ª ¨¡n j¨¬ng,¡± she says firmly, her Mandarin crisp and commanding.

    The students barely acknowledge her. A few heads turn, but the chatter continues, rising and falling in waves as scattered laughter ripples across the room.

    Her lips press into a thin line before she switches to English. ¡°Be quiet now!¡±

    A handful of students laugh sarcastically, and someone near the back mutters a mocking, racially-tinged imitation of her command. But nothing changes. The room remains as loud and restless as before.

    ¡°Just read from your tablets then. Study for the exam. I will be here if you have questions,¡± she says, her voice cold and resigned.

    I exchange a glance with Claudia, who barely reacts beyond a slow blink before flipping open her tablet. Mrs. Zhang sighs, shaking her head, and lowers herself into the creaky chair at her desk, surrendering to the reality of the unruly classroom.

    I tap my tablet awake and navigate to the Chinese app, my reflection briefly visible in the darkened screen before the interface loads. A practice review pops up, listing key phrases and vocabulary from our syllabus. It all feels basic, just a repetition of things I¡¯ve already memorized. The real challenge of learning Chinese isn¡¯t reading and writing. It¡¯s speaking and holding real conversations where my brain has to react fast enough to keep up with relevant responses.

    Jono is the best at that, naturally. He grew up speaking Mandarin at home, fluent in both languages without having to think about it. He could have taken a different subject to learn, but instead, he sits in this class, securing high grades while enjoying the bonus of sitting next to his girlfriend. She leans over to nudge him now, whispering something that is probably sarcastic knowing her, and earns a smirk.

    Midway through the lesson, the quiet studying gets dull. My mind starts drifting, and my fingers swipe away from the Chinese app to open my science portal. The assignment page loads up, displaying the same set of instructions I¡¯ve already read too many times. I flick through the resources, my eyes skimming over the school¡¯s digital textbook, until the name of its author catches my attention.

    Mariana Montoya.

    I frown. Where have I seen that name before?

    A quick search in the tablet¡¯s AI research tool brings up the answer. Mariana Montoya is the Sydney-based scientist who wrote the article on renewable energy distribution. It was her scientific article that I skimmed through last night while helping Ernie.

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    My eyebrows lift as I read further. She¡¯s not just some random researcher. She now holds a major position based in the CBD: Renewable Power Director of United World¡¯s Australian energy maintenance division.

    Whatever that actually means. However, it does seem like she is in charge of the division.

    I sit up straighter, suddenly more interested. If I can get an interview with her, that would be the direct source that sets my assignment apart from the others. Instead of just quoting references from the textbook and online articles, I could get direct insight from the woman at the top.

    I spend the next 30 minutes looking for other supporting academic papers, but the deeper I dig, the more I realize how difficult it is to find truly independent research. Everything circles back to United World in one way or another. The articles historical analysis, the renewable power testing, even the subject matter experts are all tied to the same corporation. Sure, not all of them are run by United World. It is such a large organisation, however, that there are links to them across all of the information. Some analyses are funded by them, testing demonstrations are sponsored by them, and others, such as Bill Collingwood, are former employees who now run associated corporations.  Bill in the Air Power Corporation is profiting from its solar, wind and hydroelectric divisions. It¡¯s frustrating that it is this difficult to add credibility to my final project.

    Still, Mariana Montoya seems to be in the highest position of any of the authors and is my best lead. If I can secure an interview with her, that should be the unique and direct source that sets my assignment above all of the others in the class! Although, if I can¡¯t get her, maybe I can reach out to Walter Reynolds, the Vice-President of Renewable Power. He hasn¡¯t written any articles, so that might make his perspective more diverse in an interview than the others. But I need to arrange at least one interview, regardless of who it is with, to stand out.

    I open up the email app in my phone and start drafting a formal request to hold an interview with Mariana, carefully and deliberately choosing my words. I don¡¯t want to sound like a young schoolgirl desperate for attention, but I need to make a strong case for why they should bother talking to me about renewable energy distribution. The ¡®you¡¯re my hero¡¯ angle might play well if she has a big ego.

    Dear Dr. Mariana,

    Thank you for taking the time to read my email.

    My name is Victoria, and I am a student at the Central Institute of Knowledge. I am currently working on an assignment about renewable energy resources in Australia and their impact on our daily lives and the economy.

    I have greatly appreciated your article The Future of Resource Management and have been studying your textbook as well. Your insights have been incredibly valuable, and I would be truly honored if I could interview you for my research.

    It would truly be an honour to meet you, and I am happy to make myself available at any time, even just for a few minutes, to be able to interview the best female role model a woman could have!

    Please let me know¡­

    The classroom noise fades as I focus on the final touches to my email, fingers hovering over the screen, but before I can finish, the piercing chime of the bell fills the room.

    I exhale, frustrated at having my train of thought interrupted. I¡¯ll have to finish this later when I can set my focus back to it.

    Claudia is already standing, stretching her arms dramatically as she lets out a slow yawn. ¡°Finally,¡± she complains, shoving her tablet into her bag. Then, with a playful smirk, she gestures to Jono. ¡°I have all the Chinese I need right here.¡±

    Jono chuckles as they begin walking toward the door, already lost in conversation. I slide my tablet into my bag and zip it closed before hurrying after them.

    As we pass Mrs. Zhang¡¯s desk, she looks up from her papers, her sharp gaze landing on us. ¡°Z¨¤iji¨¤n,¡± she says, her tone neutral but expectant.

    We pause in the doorway, and out of respect, we all reply, ¡°Z¨¤iji¨¤n zh¨¨ng t¨¤it¨¤i,¡± before stepping into the crowded hallway.

    I tuck my tablet under my arm and let out a breath. Another class done. Another step closer to finishing school.

    Now, I just need to get that interview and finish that last assignment.

 Chapter 10 â€“ Roselynâ€™s Tuesday

    I wake up peacefully to the light hum of the city filtering through the cracked window, and distant construction blending into an ambient background noise. The air in the apartment has the moist smell of undried laundry, and of a man who rarely showers because he never leaves the house. My bed is now a mess of tangled sheets and a flattened pillow, but it¡¯s warm, and I burrow myself deeper into it for a moment longer, relishing the fact that I don¡¯t have any place to be right now. Of course there¡¯s school, but that doesn¡¯t count to me.

    A smug smile pulls at my lips as I remember how things played out this morning. Dad took my side. Victoria could have pushed harder, could have really created a loud fuss about how I needed to be ¡°a good example for Ernie,¡± but she didn¡¯t. She wastes way too much energy, that one.

    I let out a satisfied sigh, rolling onto my back, stretching my arms above my head. Hanging out with my friends last night was worth it, laughing at Sam¡¯s ridiculous thoughts until my stomach hurt, feeling free. Unlike Victoria, I actually know what it¡¯s like to have friends and a social life. I highly doubt that she will ever attract a boyfriend into her life either.

    I picture her years from now, grey-haired and living alone, surrounded by dozens of stray cats she¡¯s ¡°saved¡± from the streets. I giggle to myself a little bit at the thought. Maybe I should suggest that as a career path. Animal rescue, specializing in dirty, feral street cats. Dad must have heard my giggle because I feel his attention draw my way. I roll over to face in his direction. He often sits facing the wall, lost in his own thoughts, and unsurprisingly, that¡¯s exactly what he¡¯s doing today in his usual spot.

    He never really moves much anymore. It¡¯s like he¡¯s been frozen in time, trapped in this apartment while life goes on without him. Once, he was someone important, someone with a career, a reputation. Now, he just sits there, emptied out by a world that beat him down and never looked back. It¡¯s not his fault he¡¯s become this... it¡¯s just what happens when life strips everything away until there¡¯s nothing left to take.

    I frown, shifting under the covers. It¡¯s not fair that they took everything from him. He¡¯s locked up in this apartment like some forgotten relic. Mum has gone, his job was taken away from him, and no one gives a damn. The world just continues on.

    At least he understands why it is so important for me to go out and enjoy myself, to actually live my life. Though today feels like one of those hoodie-and-sweatpants kind of days. Maybe I¡¯ll see if Dom¡¯s got thoughts about the tryouts later¡­ or just chilling tonight.

    My eyes drift to my phone resting on the charger beside my bed. The screen flares to life when I disconnect it. Six unread texts. One is from Victoria, predictably trying to bully me into going into school for the second half of the day.

    All the other texts are from Dom.

    I glance down at my phone, a warm smile spreading across my face as I scroll through his messages. Wow, he must really miss me.

    As I¡¯m reading the last one, another comes through.

    "Please get back to me, babe. Are you going to get lunch with us at La Fiesta Mexicana?"

    La Fiesta Mexicana¡­ that place¡¯s just a ten-minute walk from here.

    It¡¯s set up to serve street food and drinks from a stationary, converted food truck to people gathered around outdoor tables in a park filled with pumping Latin music. I like Dom¡¯s choice. Today is Taco Tuesday and probably comes with its own kind of celebration.

    I reply, ¡°Sure, what time?¡± before remembering it was in one of his earlier texts. 12pm and it¡¯s already 12:15. A response comes instantly. ¡°Now.¡±

    That figures.

    I sigh, already mourning the lazy day I¡¯d envisioned for myself. But tacos sound good, and Dom is waiting.

    So much for a hoodie and sweatpants kind of day!

    <hr>

    I drag myself out of bed, my feet hitting the cold, hard floor. The apartment is cramped, cluttered with discarded clothes, half-full cups, and my organised stacks of clothes Victoria keeps nagging me to clean up. The light from the window is weak, filtered through smog and streaks of grime that builds up faster than Victoria remembers to wipe it off.

    I shuffle toward the makeshift bathroom setup in the corner¡ªa curtained-off section of the room with a drain in the concrete floor and a showerhead attached to the exposed pipes above.

    I pull the curtain closed around me and turn the tap on. A thin stream of icy water hits my skin. It is barely enough to rinse with, but still sharp enough to jolt me awake more than the rush of running late ever could. Reaching for the artificial rose-scented body wash, I lather up, scrubbing away the sweaty, blanket-heavy smell from my skin.

    Once I¡¯m done, I reach for a towel and immediately regret it. Damp. Thanks Victoria. She was supposed to wash these on Sunday. I sigh and make do, wrapping the wet fabric around me as I step out, walking past Dad¡¯s statuesque figure. He doesn¡¯t even glance my way, his eyes still locked ahead, trapped in whatever thoughts keep him anchored to that chair.

    I head to the piles of clothes by my bed and go straight for my ¡®only worn once¡¯ pile, digging through until I find something that feels right.

    I get dressed in some medium blue skinny jeans, frayed at the knees to look intentionally fashionable, and a thermal black top that hugs my body. It¡¯s not cold enough to need a jacket if I wear something warm like that. My black boots are worn, but the good thing about black is that it doesn¡¯t stand out so noticeably.

    By the time I¡¯ve brushed my bed hair as long, straight, and untangled as it¡¯ll go, forty minutes have passed, and there are two more unread texts and three missed calls on my phone. Dom must be wondering where I am. It¡¯s time for me to leave.

    I grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder.

    "Bye, Daddy. I¡¯m going out!"

    Without looking my way, he responds mindlessly,

    "Bye, Rose Petal."

    I cringe at the pet name he gave me as a child and still uses, but if that¡¯s the price for being his favourite and no one else is around to hear it, it¡¯s a price I¡¯m happy to pay for my freedom.

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    I leave the apartment, locking the door behind me. The second I breathe in the thick city air, spices, and the warm waft of street food rising from the crowd outside, my stomach reminds me of its hunger. Mmm, Mexican food.

    <hr>

    I arrive at the park and pause for a moment to take it all in. The wide space is dotted with long rows of white wooden tables, each flanked by matching stools that look hand-painted and slightly chipped from constant use. Bright sunlight bounces off their surfaces, warming the paint and adding a lazy afternoon glow to the scene. Towering stands rise from each corner of the setup, metal poles holding up speakers high above the crowd¡¯s reach. They pulse with the rhythm of Cali Pachanguero, a Colombian classic that spills into the open air, infusing everything with vibrant energy.

    The park is alive. Groups of people sit at the tables with plates stacked with tacos, colourful toppings spilling over, and plastic cups clinking with beer and pale margaritas. Some chat with tacos in hand, others laugh loud and carefree, released by the irresistible pull of the rhythm. Friends dance near the larger tables, laughing as they try out salsa steps with loose, playful energy. Some stumble and recover with dramatic flair, others twirl each other clumsily, but no one seems to care. The music lifts everyone in its rhythm. Nearby, couples move closer, hips in sync, their smiles slower and more secret, like the beat belongs just to them. The whole scene is warm and easy, like time has paused for everyone to simply enjoy being here.

    Just beyond the tables, a football field stretches across the side of the park, alive with movement and noise. The grass is uneven but firm, worn in all the right places from constant play. At each end, white wooden goal frames stand tall without nets, inviting quick shots and friendly rivalry. Laughter rises from the players as they chase the ball, many still holding drinks, their shouts mixing with the music. The whole field pulses with the kind of carefree energy that makes it impossible not to smile.

    Around fifty people fill the field, weaving in and out of loosely organized games while holding onto beers or plastic cups of margarita. The vibe is lighthearted, with more banter than competition, and bursts of laughter ripple across the park. Every so often, someone slips or spills their drink mid-kick, and the surrounding crowd at the closest tables erupts in cheers and teasing applause, celebrating the moment like it¡¯s part of the game.

    At the front of all the tables stands the former food truck and restaurant, La Fiesta Mexicana. The old food truck has been cheerfully repainted in warm reds, faded yellows, and soft greens, its sides adorned with hand-drawn patterns of chilies and sunbursts that give it a worn but homely charm. Brightly painted wooden signs lean against the awning poles, hand-lettered with names of tacos and drink specials, while the air is thick with the comforting smell of grilled beef, smoky spices, and tortillas crisping on a hotplate inside. A queue winds beside it, people swaying to the beat as they wait for their orders, some fanning themselves with folded napkins, others already nibbling from paper-lined trays.

    It¡¯s only half full, given that it¡¯s a weekday afternoon, but the energy makes it feel packed. Normally, I¡¯d hear Dom¡¯s deep laugh or Sam¡¯s booming voice before I even made it halfway through the crowd, but today their voices are swallowed up by the music and chatter. I weave between tables, scanning faces, until the sound of English finally cuts through from a table near the football field. Found them!

    ¡°Hi, gang!¡± I call out as I stroll up to the table, leaning in to press a short, familiar kiss to Dom¡¯s lips.

    Dom, in his usual effortless cool with faded jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves lazily rolled, nods to Sam without looking, a small wave of his hand. Sam, never one to miss a cue, hops up from his seat with exaggerated enthusiasm and grabs an extra stool to place beside Dom.

    Sabina, sitting upright and rigid in her tight black top and perfectly done makeup, narrows her eyes to stare daggers at me, her glossed lips curved into a sour smile. She looks like someone who¡¯s had just enough of everyone today. I go over and wrap one arm lightly around her shoulder in a casual side-hug, leaning in to plant an air kiss near her cheek without really touching her. She lifts a brow, her voice tight.

    ¡°Look who decided to grace us with her presence after all! Where have you been?¡±

    Before I can respond, Sam plonks the stool down for me and shoves an oversized chicken taco into his mouth, still managing to speak through it. ¡°Yeah? We waited for a bit and were getting hungry!¡± I respond sarcastically as I sit down, sliding onto the stool beside Dom like I¡¯ve been here the whole time.

    ¡°Well, it doesn¡¯t look like you¡¯re going to die from hunger anytime soon. Where did you get all of this food?¡±

    The table is loaded with at least fifteen small tacos spread out across a mix of trays. Some are stacked neatly, others slightly crooked like they were placed down in a hurry. A couple of beers sit untouched in plastic cups, and scattered lime wedges glisten faintly in the afternoon sun.

    Dom responds with a sly grin. ¡°Sam has been very resourceful. He grabbed them off empty tables after people ordered too much and left to go back to work. If we don¡¯t eat them, the birds will, and it¡¯s only fair that we have the food rather than them.¡±

    Sabina cuts in, ¡°Dom is being modest. It was his genius idea and look, beer too!¡±

    Dom brushes off the compliment and turns back to me, his eyes hardening a little. ¡°So where were you?¡±

    I stretch a little in my seat and smile mischievously. ¡°I skipped school today. After our late night, I had a good sleep and just stayed in bed. When I finally looked at the time, I saw your texts and was surprised you were up and out.¡±

    His eyes soften again as he chuckles, running a hand through his messy hair. ¡°I didn¡¯t sleep long. Some of the soccer crew wanted a morning session before tryouts, so I met them at the school rooftop to train.¡± He tilts his head to the left, gesturing toward the park field. ¡°Although I probably should¡¯ve told them to come here. Could¡¯ve coached from these seats.¡±

    Sam lets out a loud laugh and grabs another taco. ¡°Haha, yes! Tacos could¡¯ve been my breakfast too!¡±

    Dom adds, ¡°Although Sam missed the training session entirely, and he got his sleep. Sab came along to watch, and he wasn¡¯t even there.¡±

    ¡°Hey¡­¡± Sam starts, his mouth still full, but Sabina cuts in, clearly pleased with herself.

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen Sam play plenty of times. It was a refreshing change watching you teach those kids. You have some cool moves!¡±

    Dom brushes off the compliment again. ¡°They just need a leader. If they¡¯re looking to me for formation and play style, then at least they¡¯re not arguing about it between themselves. That¡¯s what matters.¡± He turns fully now to face me, his expression sharpening with intent, eyes locked on mine. ¡°Ernest looks like a seriously talented young player. Do you think you can work on getting him to tryouts today without his overbearing sister getting in the way? Fucking hell, what¡¯s Victoria¡¯s problem with me?

    I can¡¯t help but to smile a bit. ¡°He will be a great asset to the team. I¡¯ll get him to come to the tryouts, I know he wants to.¡±

    Dom smiles back at me, that warm kind of smile that always makes me feel a bit steadier and rests his right hand lovingly on my left thigh under the table. His touch is grounding, a quiet reassurance that I¡¯ve missed more than I realized.

    ¡°As for Victoria,¡± I say, brushing the thought off with a roll of my eyes, ¡°as much as I¡¯d love for her to be the topic of discussion this afternoon, I¡¯m starving. Are any of these half-eaten leftovers, or were they just abandoned and haven¡¯t yet been touched?¡±

    ¡°All untouched,¡± Sam answers between bites. ¡°And all ours. Oh! Another table¡¯s leaving. I¡¯ll be back with more!¡±

    He bolts from the table and makes his way over to snatch up another taco tray just as a couple stands to leave. Well spotted.

    I reach for a taco, the soft tortilla still warm in my fingers. The first bite floods my senses with flavor: chicken marinated in lime and cumin, melted cheese, tomato, a burst of heat from a hint of chili. Then another and another. Beef, fish, something spicy, something smoky¡­ so many tastes I haven¡¯t experienced in a long time.

    I let out a soft sigh, finally relaxed.

    It is such a freeing afternoon, away from my nagging sister and school obligations. We eat as many tacos as we want, sip our drinks, and spend the next few hours talking and laughing, the music all around us. Dom¡¯s hand stays on my leg, a steady presence, a reminder of his love, care and protection of me.

    The afternoon slips by in warm light and loud music. Under the bright sky, surrounded by friends and noise, I feel completely myself. Completely safe, for now, until the tryouts pull us back to our scripted lives.