As Chloe and Gage head down the stairs, I hear a guy say, “Hey, where’s the little one?”

Gage says something I won’t repeat, and one of the guys says, “Hey, easy, man. We’re just having a little fun.”

Then I hear Chloe say, “Forget them, Gage. We don’t have time for this,” and they’re gone.

The silence in the apartment takes me by surprise. Even though I’d expected them to leave, I still can’t quite believe that my plan worked. Gage will be mad when he gets home and finds that I’m still here — that I lied to him about staying at Sasha’s and faked the call to Marianna — but I know he and Chloe need a night out together. I know he’ll eventually forgive me.

Although I can hear voices from downstairs, I feel a million miles away from anyone. The rooms are cavernous. I can see why Chloe wants more furniture, to make it feel more homey. My mind goes to where it usually does when we stay at Chloe’s — to spreading out all my Paper Things. But I can’t do that tonight. I can’t bear to pull them out and see them ruined.

Then I remember that I haven’t had dinner. I look in the freezer to see if there are any Hot Pockets. Nope. Only ice and something wrapped in foil — hamburger, maybe. The fridge has a Tupperware container of leftovers, but when I open it, I see white mold growing on the top.

The cabinet has more stuff than the refrigerator. I push around some flour, baking soda, bread crumbs, and a can of tomato paste, and behind them all is a half bag of potato chips, which I eat even though they are incredibly stale.

There is yelling in the stairwell.

Sirens wail.

A cockroach scurries along the kitchen floor and under the sink.

I try to turn on the TV, but the remote has so many buttons, it’s hard to figure out. I push the button labeled “Power,” but nothing happens. What the . . . ? I push and push and push, thinking it must take just the right touch, but nothing. Then I start pushing all of the buttons on the remote, one after another. All kinds of commands come up on the screen, but no TV. That’s when I see another remote. I pick it up, press Power, and the screen is lit. I change the channel to HGTV, and there, thankfully, is my favorite show.

I get my blanket and pillow from behind the couch and stretch out. Almost immediately, I start to feel a little cheerier. I feel like I’m there with the young couple who are house hunting. Alongside them I walk into three different houses and ask, Could this be my home?

At the end of the show, the couple have a little party to celebrate their new home. There’s a pitcher of lemonade on the table, and there are lots of platters with veggies and dips and cheese and crackers. Friends and family come to their house and tell them how beautiful it is. The woman points out her favorite corner, where she has a big, puffy chair with pillows. Behind her chair are shelves of books.

And then, suddenly, I start to cry. And not quiet little sniffling, but huge, full-body crying. I don’t care how much noise I make in this echoey apartment that isn’t mine. I don’t care how much snot runs down my face. I just let myself sob.

But I’m not crying because the show reminded me that I don’t have a home.

I am crying because I do have one.

I do have one.

And I miss it.

There is a sudden screeching, and it’s loud — so loud that I know it’s coming from inside the apartment. I blow my nose with a paper towel and search for the source of the noise. It doesn’t take long to figure out that it’s coming from the smoke detector in Nate and Cody’s room. But I can’t see any smoke and I can’t smell a fire. I go over to their open window and look down. There are lots of people standing on the fire escape, smoking. Perhaps the smoke has drifted up here. Someone on the fire escape sees me and waves. I close the window all the way. But even with the window closed, the smoke detector doesn’t stop screeching. It yells, and yells, and yells . . .

I grab a magazine from Nate’s dresser, stand on the bed underneath the smoke detector, and fan the magazine frantically back and forth, back and forth, till it feels like my arm’s going to fall off.

Eventually the wailing stops. I put the magazine back where I found it and wander into the kitchen.

Before I really even know what I’m doing, I pick up the phone and dial Janna’s number.

She answers on the third ring. I tell her where I am and ask if she’ll come get me. That’s all. No small chat, no explanation. Just a question.

She’s silent for a moment, and I hold my breath. “I’ll be right there,” she says.

I hang up and go sit on the couch to wait. Gage will be so mad when he finds out. . . . And hurt. But I can’t help it.

I’ve made up my mind.

Just like that.

I’m going home.