My hand has stopped hurting. I keep it close to my chest. My finger brushes the bandage—the cleanest one I’ve ever had.
Sleep comes easy when there’s a roof. Four walls. I make my bed in the far corner, back to the tiles. Chma has left Dai’s laundry pile in favor of my warmth. He curls against my full belly, rattles me with a lullaby of purrs.
No knives. No rats. No hunger. Just rest.
And Dai.
The older boy lies in the middle of the room. Coiled like a snail. Hidden deep in his shell. His breaths echo all over. Remind me—even when the dreams start edging in—I’m not alone.
I could get used to this.