I stand there considering throwing her in my car and driving to the shelter, but I know she’d fight me the whole way, and in the end, it has to be her decision. She is her own person. I kick at a pebble, my head tumbling. She refused my offer of giving her an extra the key to the basement, which could totally get me kicked out of the building if the landlord found out, but at least it’s heated. The Walker Police Department doesn’t have any missing persons. I checked. I want to help her, want her to be okay. If I just keep coming, keep talking, keep checking on her, maybe one day—

Her head pops back out, her eyes glittering in the streetlights. “Go home, girl. Oh, and happy birthday. You’re legal. Drink one for me. Get crazy, but not too crazy. Use a condom if you do the dirty dance.”

She remembered.

Warmth sinks into my bones, soft and easy.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

“Don’t think I like you.”

“You adore me.”

“See you tomorrow night.” She disappears.

Five minutes later, I’m getting the mail in the lobby of our building when I see Sam exiting his office. Our maintenance man, he’s of medium height with brown hair and a short beard. A tool belt hangs around his waist and he hitches it up, then crosses his arms when he sees me. He frowns. “I saw you pull up and go back there. You gotta stop feeding her, Ana. She’ll just keep coming back.”

Unease curls around me. It’s more than just giving her food. I’m a person to her when I don’t think she has anyone. “Sam, come on. She doesn’t make a mess and cleans up after Oscar. No one sees her. It’s dark out there.”

His round face scrunches, and his hand goes to his jeans, his thumb hooking into his waistband. “Mr. Winston is a stickler for vagrants. You know how meticulous he is about this place. This can’t keep on. She’s been here for a month and I haven’t said a word—”

“How was the lasagna? How’s the new baby?”

He huffs. “Tiff loved the casserole, and the baby sleeps like a log. She said to tell you thanks for the food and the baby outfit.” He grimaces. “You’re too damn nice. June needs to get gone.”

He said her name, which means she’s a person to him to.

“Just let her be,” I say softly. I don’t ask Sam for much, even when the sink gets clogged or the lights go out. I buy Drano or dash to the basement and flip the breaker.

“She’s harmless,” I add. “I can guarantee another casserole. I’ll even babysit—for free. Wouldn’t you love a night out just you two?”

“Hmmm, yeah.” He rubs a hand through his beard. “June’s always gone in the mornings.”

“No one even sees her. She only sleeps here.”

“I should call Mr. Winston though. Right?” He blows out a gust of air, an uncertain look on his face.

“Not tonight. It’s late. Get some sleep and kiss the baby for me.” Please, Sam.

I hear him grumbling behind me as I walk up the stairs to my apartment.

I put my key in and open the door.

“Happy birthday!” comes from my two roomies, Lila and Colette, as I walk in the front door of our three-bedroom apartment.

Before I can even set down my bags and the mail, Lila jumps at me with a tight hug and Colette follows. We make a circle, squeal, and jump up and down.

Blonde and petite, Lila’s wearing booty shorts and a sleep shirt, while dark-haired Colette sports a PJ flannel set with yellow rubber ducks on it. They’re fraternal twins.

“Pajama party?” I say on a laugh.

Lila pumps the air as they yell in unison, “Hell yeah!”

They whoop and I join them, emotion tugging at me as I take in the mylar balloons in the den. Amongst the Happy Birthday! ones, a few say Get Well Soon, Happy Graduation, and Happy Mother’s Day.

“We wanted a festive look. Bought all the balloons they had,” Lila says with a giggle. Pink and purple streamers crisscross the den. It’s a mess, no rhyme or reason, and I smile broadly.

The three of us met last spring at The Truth Is Out There. Lila works there with me, and Colette is a regular. Still finding my footing at Braxton, I was renting a room in a drafty old boarding house. They had an extra bedroom and asked me to move in.

Lila tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder. “I’ve got the good stuff tonight.” She twirls around, grabs a box off the media center, and opens it. She preens as if it’s the Hope Diamond. “It’s your birthday, bitch. We’re getting high.”

Colette grabs a jar of peanut butter off the coffee table, picks up the spoon stuck inside the container, and sticks it in her mouth. Her eyebrows waggle. She talks around the spoon. “We smoked one already.”

I laugh. Of course they have.

On Lila’s birthday, a few months ago, we got high. It was my first time, and I ended up with a terrible case of paranoia. I convinced them the police were after us with K9 drug dogs. We hid in our basement with the washers and dryers.

“Please, join us,” Colette begs as she drags me into the kitchen. “Look, I made nachos for your birthday, your favorite, and I have cupcakes from the Busy Bakery!” She waves her hands in a flourish around purple cupcakes. Ana is written in white icing on the tops. My throat tightens, my stomach pitching at the emotion.

“Don’t you dare cry!” she says.

“I’m not!” I say on a laugh as I wipe my face.

“Liar!” She opens the fridge and pulls out the prosecco. “This is a throwdown! Screw Donovan. You got us, babe!”

I laugh. Typically, recreational drugs don’t hold much appeal, but well, today…

Lila hums as she sets to work at the table, rolling the joint. Colette murmurs that she needs talking points for our conversations and grabs a notebook in case we forget our ‘revelations.’

I dash to my room and change into black leggings and a cropped Queen of Naps shirt. I scour my backpack for my copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, thinking we might discuss it during a high chat, but I can’t find it. Weird.

An hour later, our buzz hits.

I’m singing “Wonderwall” by Oasis on top of the coffee table. “I sound great,” I tell them, but Colette laughs at me from the floor. Lila goes to the front door then reappears with Chinese takeout that no one recalls ordering, but I suspect she’s messing with me.

We head to the kitchen. Leftover nachos and cupcakes litter the counters as we dig into the Chinese food.

Colette chomps on a tube of frozen chocolate chip cookie dough as I eat an egg roll. The mix of crispy flour and lettuce is freaking amazing. I dunk it in the sweet sauce and decide the color of the egg roll shell is the same as Donovan’s hair.

F him.

“Even birthday fiasco aside, Donovan and I are off,” I say. “It’s like, we’re circling this awful thing and don’t want to acknowledge it.”

“He’s stuck up. Let’s go beat his stupid Tesla with a baseball bat,” Lila says with quiet venom, looking fierce. “We’ll call an Uber, do the deed, maybe swing by Pizza Hut for a supreme on the way back.” She’s already grabbing the metal bat we keep in the corner for intruders.

“We have plenty of food,” I remind her calmly.