Page 2 of Shadow Waltz

“What if you're too sick to work?”

The words slipped out before I could stop them. Cass had been getting worse lately, the coughing fits lasting longer, the bruises under their eyes getting darker. Their appetite had disappeared weeks ago, and now they just pushed food aroundtheir plate until Mrs. Hargrove got tired of watching and took it away. We both pretended it was just stress, just the shitty air in this shitty apartment, but I knew better. I'd seen enough sick kids come through the system to recognize the signs.

The silence stretched between us, heavy and uncomfortable. On the TV, the chef was plating his pasta, every element perfectly placed. A world where things made sense, where effort led to results.

“I won't be,” Cass said finally, their voice barely above a whisper. “I'm tougher than I look.”

They were. God, they were so much tougher than anyone gave them credit for. Tougher than me, most days. I'd seen Cass take punches that would have dropped me, had watched them smile through broken ribs and black eyes and worse. But tough only got you so far in a world that wanted to break you just for existing.

The apartment settled around us with a series of creaks and groans, old wood and older dreams collapsing under their own weight. Somewhere in the building, a baby was crying. Somewhere else, a couple was screaming at each other in Spanish. The soundtrack of survival, playing on endless repeat.

“We'll get out,” I said, the words feeling like a promise I wasn't sure I could keep. But I meant them anyway, with every broken piece of my heart. “I swear to God, Cass. We'll get out of here.”

“Sure, Prince Charming.” Cass's smile was soft and sad and beautiful, tinged with something that might have been hope if you squinted hard enough. “Save me from the tower.”

“This isn't a fairy tale.”

“No. It's not.” They closed their eyes, and for a moment, they looked so young. Too young to be carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders, too young to know what we both knew about the way the world worked. “But sometimes I liketo pretend it is. Sometimes I pretend there's a happy ending waiting for us somewhere.”

I stared out the window at the city sprawling below us, all neon and shadows and broken dreams. Somewhere out there, people were living real lives. People were happy. People were free. People were sitting in clean kitchens making dinner for families who loved them, going to jobs that mattered, sleeping in beds that belonged to them.

It felt as far away as the moon.

“Next week,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. The words tasted like copper and desperation. “We'll make our move next week.”

Cass opened their eyes and looked at me, really looked at me, like they were trying to memorize my face. Their gaze traced the scar through my left eyebrow, the bruise on my jaw that was finally starting to fade, the way my hair fell into my eyes because I refused to let Mrs. Hargrove's boyfriend near me with scissors.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but I swallowed it down. Let myself believe, just for a moment, that we could actually do it. That we could walk out of this place and never look back. That the world would let us go without a fight.

The TV flickered again, and suddenly we were watching the news. Something about a missing girl, another runaway who'd probably end up in a ditch somewhere. The reporter's voice was clinical, detached, like she was talking about the weather instead of someone's daughter. The girl's school photo filled the screen—blonde, pretty, smiling like she believed the world was a good place.

Lily Bron, 16, last seen leaving her foster home in Queens...

I reached for the remote and changed the channel, but the damage was done. The real world had crept back in, reminding us that kids like us didn't get happy endings. They got obituaries, if they were lucky. More often, they just got forgotten.

“Ash?”

“Yeah?”

Cass's voice was so quiet I almost missed it over the sound of canned laughter from whatever sitcom was playing now. “Whatever happens, I want you to know... you're the best thing that ever happened to me.”

The words hit me somewhere deep, somewhere I kept locked away from the rest of the world. Somewhere that still believed in things like love and loyalty and the possibility that maybe, just maybe, I was worth saving. I wanted to tell them they were wrong, that they deserved better than a broken boy with bloody knuckles and a head full of rage. But I couldn't find the words.

Instead, I squeezed their hand tighter and made another promise I wasn't sure I could keep. “We're going to make it, Cass. Both of us.”

The night stretched on, full of whispered plans and impossible dreams. We talked about the apartment we'd share, the jobs we'd get, the life we'd build together. Cass wanted a window box full of herbs, something green and growing to remind them that beautiful things could still exist. I wanted a lock on the door that only we had the key to, a place where no one could touch us without permission.

It all felt so real in the darkness, so close I could almost taste it.

But dreams were dangerous things in a place like this. They made you careless. They made you hope.

And hope, I was learning, was the cruelest thing of all.

Three days later,we were standing on the subway platform at midnight, our entire lives packed into two beat-up backpacks. The plan was simple: catch the last train to Penn Station, then figure out how to get to Portland. We had eighty-three dollars between us, most of it scrounged from couch cushions and bottle returns.