Frank, honey, calm down, she's—she's a good girl, she'll do it—

SHUT YOUR MOUTH, YOU WORTHLESS DRUGGIE. I'M TALKING TO ELLIE.

The screen door rattles on its hinges. Y/n sits on the top step, the cigarette burning low between her fingers, the smoke curling up into the heavy Chicago dusk. The shouting from inside is a familiar rhythm now, white noise you've learned to tune out.

A moving truck is parked halfway up the curb, its back doors gaping open. A girl about your age is hauling a cardboard box marked "BOOKS" up the walkway. She's got hair like dark fire—deep red that catches the last of the sunset. She sets the box down on the porch of the house that's been empty for months, wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, and turns.

She freezes for a second. Then she raises a hand, hesitant, and gives a small wave.

Y/N, YOU BETTER NOT BE SMOKING ON THAT PORCH. I SWEAR TO GOD—