Chapter Ten: The Shape of Rules

[Pa****]

She hadn’t expected the apple core to matter. Anywhere else, it wouldn’t have. On the street you ate fast, tossed what was left, and moved on. In shelters food vanished before it hit the floor. Nobody kept track of who left what behind.

But here, the apple became something else: an unwitting test she hadn’t known she was taking. A weight laid across her shoulders as gently as a cloth in her hand. Own it. Then fix it.

Respect. Nothing is free. If you leave a mark, you make it right.

The words chased each other through her head long after she’d wiped the counter clean. They followed her back to the master bedroom, skittering like small shadows in the corners.

She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the sliding door. The desert pressed at the glass, whispering escape. Her chest tightened at the memory of running — the s***d of vanishing, the safety of not being seen.

But the rule stayed. The cat nosed her ankle and jumped to the quilt, settling as if the place had always been its own.

She tried to name the feeling the rule made in her: not ***, not shame, but some quiet order that might be called belonging. She wasn’t ready to believe it yet. All she had was a clean counter and the echo of the sentence said aloud.

For tonight, that would have to be enough.