But it was his. His mom had handed him the keys three years ago, kissed his forehead, and said, This is your fresh start, Percy. Don't mess it up.

He hadn't. Mostly.

He didn't need to check the time. He knew her routine.

At 7:15, she'd step out onto her fire escape with a mug of her own, wrap her hands around it, and watch the street below. She'd been doing it every morning since he was nine, when his mom had first moved them into this building. He'd watched her from his window like it was his favorite TV show.

He remembered the summer he turned twelve, sitting on his fire escape with a comic book he wasn't reading, just to catch a glimpse of her in her tank top, watering the plants she kept in old tin cans. He remembered the parade of boyfriends who'd come and go—the guy with the motorcycle, the one with the guitar, the redhead who'd cheated on her, the one she'd thrown a shoe at from this very fire escape.

He remembered being fourteen and thinking, If I was older, I'd treat her better.

He remembered being sixteen and realizing he didn't want to be older. He just wanted to be him.

He pulled on a worn yellow t-shirt and stepped out onto his fire escape, the metal cool under his feet. The morning air smelled like exhaust and fresh bread from the bakery two blocks over.

Her fire escape was a few feet away, separated by a brick wall and a gap of air that had never felt wider.

She was there. Of course she was.

She wore a faded floral robe, her hair in a messy bun, her face bare and soft in the morning light. She looked tired. She looked perfect.