Sunday arrives with an unusually cloudy sky.

My mood is unusually cloudy too. I don't feel like cleaning up. I don't feel like doing the shopping. I don't feel like leaving the house at all. I don't even feel like writing.

It's almost like a hangover. Without having drunk any alcohol.

Ben, on the other hand, is overly active. He's still exhilarated from yesterday's events. It was probably his best day since we arrived here, so I don't blame him.

I try to remind myself of the good things in my life. A roof above my head. A steady job. Better-than-average schooling for my son. And, first and foremost, the lack of shooting outside.

I achieved everything I hoped for, and more. What else can a girl dream of?

Certainly not of receiving a letter from the Immigration Aid Office early in the morning. They sent it as a registered mail, so it can't be a simple birthday greeting card.

I hit a new low when I open it. It's an eighty questions long official query, covering each and every aspect of our life in detail. Housing. Regular incomes. Hygienic circumstances. Social network. Sicknesses. Infections. Mental health. Some pretty straightforward questions about my intentions of being involved in future terrorist acts. Some others about my capacity of taking care of my child. And, my personal favorite, a section to state my will about his adoption, naming the possible caretaker, in case I happen to die suddenly.

I choose an elegantly elaborate and distinctively disgusting curse for the special occasion. The IAO deftly touched the spot of my deepest fear ever, I'll give them that.

Ben laughs out loud. I shrug and tell him that he's free to use it now, as no one will understand it, anyway. Then I send him to fetch Ms. Okoro.

While he's away, I consider taking a quick shot, just to stop the trembling of my hands. But I don't have any liquor at home, so I just keep on swearing and pacing until they arrive.

"Are the authorities pestering you, darling?" Ms. Okoro asks, after I brief her on the situation.

"Yes." I nod. "And I need a good citizen to testify to my statements. I believe you already have a firsthand experience of signing official papers for people in need, so if you may."

"Do you want me to adopt your child?" She furrows her brow. "I'm a bit too old for that, aren't I?"

"Of course I don't want you to adopt him," I groan. "I don't plan to die in the near future. You don't even have to read it, just sign it, okay?"

"Are you lying to the officers, girl?" she asks, looking more amused than bothered.

"Of course I'm lying!" I snap at her. "I can't let them know that I'm living in the slums, and the landlady can kick me out any time she feels like! I'm a fucking lawyer, and we haven't even signed a contract to present it to fucking IAO! How could I be so stupid?"

"You don't need to worry about being kicked out, you know," she says.

"That's not what I'm worried about." I breathe out loudly. "They are looking for an excuse to take my son into foster care. I can't leave an opening."

"Don't worry about it, girl." she smiles, touching my shoulder. "It's just your fears speaking. Now you're a big time lawyer again, not some tramp. You can't seriously believe that your friends would let anything bad happen to you."

"Big time lawyer, huh? My position is shady as fuck at the firm, just so you know. I'm employed as a legal assistant and I'm doing a lawyer's job, because your darling Mark won't pay me as much as to non-immigrants, who weren't hired out of charity. But it doesn't matter. I'd just prefer not to give my so-called friends a reason to intervene, okay? I just want to stay under the radar. And my weak spot is this fucking house. I should have listened to Ollie and move out of here."

"I don't understand the half of what you're saying." She ruffles my hair. "But one thing is sure. Don't worry about the house, beautiful. It's okay now."

"What do you mean by it's okay?" I narrow my eyes. I sense something suspicious in the way she looks away.

"Nothing." She shrugs. "Just believe me. The house is okay now. You won't be kicked out. And no one can find a fault in it either."

"How do you know that?" I ask her. I'm almost sure she's hiding something.

"I can't tell you."

"To me? Specifically?" I inquire.

"Oh, for God's sake, stop bugging me!" she exclaims. "I won't tell you anything."

"Is it because you have nothing to tell," I push on, "or because you're not allowed to tell me?"

She purses her mouth into a thin line, with a stubborn expression on her face. I would let it drop in any other situation, but with the IAO's letter in my hand, I just can't. I raise my finger, losing my patience.

"Maggie, we've been good neighbors. Maybe even friends. But if you're keeping something from me that concerns me, you get yourself an enemy. A very effective one, I must say."

Her mouth falls open. I regret my outburst instantly, seeing the hurt in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," I apologize. "I'm a bundle of nerves at the moment. Please, just tell me the truth."

"I'm afraid you'll get even more nervous if I tell you," she sighs. "Or that's what he told me. That I should shut my big mouth if I don't want to upset you."

"He?" I ask impatiently.

"The boy."

"Which boy?" I slam my hand on the table. "I'm not in the mood for riddles!"

"Mark, of course. Who else? He bought this whole fucking neighborhood. He didn't tell me, I just had this quarrel with the city council, never mind, and I saw his name on the papers. And I asked him outright, and he can't lie to me, you know, so here we go. But he instructed me not to tell you by any means. Like, never. Never, ever."

Now it's my turn to let my jaw drop. It takes some time for her words to sink in.

"But I guess he was wrong," Ms. Okoro says tentatively. "You're much cooler than he thought."

"What did he tell you?" I ask her, feeling a growing pressure behind my temple. "That if you told me, it would make my head explode?"

"No, he told me that you'd breathe fire."

"He knows me, I'll give him that." I nod, trying to sound much calmer than I am. In fact, I have to cross my arms in front of my chest to prevent myself from trembling. I feel the adrenaline rushing through my body. It's the only answer my system knows when feeling helpless against someone threatening me.

Fury.

"He just wanted to help you with the frequent outages," she says, taking a quick step back. "And it was the only way he could."

"Did he?" I snort. "Did I ask for his help, in the first place? Or did I tell him that I'd rather be dead than depending on him? Which one, huh?"

"You're not depending on him, girl!"

"Like fuck I'm not!" I slam my hand on the table again. "He practically owns me!"

Ms. Okoro takes a deep breath, but I'm faster than her. And angrier. Much angrier.

"He owns my time," I enumerate. "My work. My finances. My son's schooling. Even the place I live. Fucking everything. Everything I have. Everything I think about when I feel like shit. Everything the fucking IAO is interested in, can you believe that? Why don't I just send them to my owner for further information? Wouldn't that be fucking convenient? To connect them to discuss what will happen to me?"

Ms. Okoro looks at me as if I was breathing fire, literally. And, judging by the insufferably hot feeling in my chest, maybe I am. She doesn't even dare to interrupt my ranting.

"I was so wrong," I sigh, feeling out of breath. "I managed to maintain control over my life even in a war, isn't it funny? And I thought it was a given. I had to come this far away to realize it's not. Well, it's better late than never, right? I still have my brain, my legs, my arms, so it's still up to me, you fucking asshole! I'm not talking to you, sorry."

"Okay." Ms. Okoro smiles warily. "I should've listened to him. Your reaction is far from normal."

"We don't have much," I carry on, without letting her disturb my thoughts, "but it's still better this way, because we can move easily to another place, somewhere far enough, to—"

Ben, who listened to us in silence, at this moment stands up and shakes his head. Very firmly. Then he walks into our bedroom and shuts the door.

"Okay," I sigh, slumping on a chair. I feel all my strength leaving my body. Ms. Okoro sits by me, taking my hand.

"Is it over, darling? Good. Now, can you tell me, why are you feeling this way? The boy won't do you any harm. I can promise you that. He won't ask you for anything in return, either."

"Of course he won't." I pout. "What the fuck could I give him?"

"Then what?" Ms. Okoro asks patiently, caressing my hand.

I try my best to find a somewhat logical reason, other than the very thought of someone having even the slightest control over me, makes my blood boil. But all I can think about is going over to Mr. Warren's place, picking up one of those very cozy deckchairs, and beating him to a pulp with it.

"You know what they say," I squeeze out finally, "never put all your eggs in one basket."

Now, this sounds rational. I'm proud of myself. Until Maggie answers, that is.

"Mark is not like a basket at all. He's made of a much more durable material. More like reinforced concrete, or something."

I stare at her. I can't believe she never heard of even the simplest proverbs.

"I still wouldn't put all my eggs in it, even if it's fucking stainless steel."

"Your eggs?" she asks, with a contemplative wink. "How old are you, girl? I bet there's still plenty of time for those eggs to hatch."

I palm my face. I count to ten. Then I ask Ms. Okoro to sign the fucking IAO query and leave the answers up to me.

When I just think we're done, and the day can't get any weirder, my phone rings. It's the school principal. With another query. He wants to know if Mr. Warren can make it to the match.

I count to ten again. Then I advise him to call Mr. Warren and ask him the same thing.

I almost hang up, but he starts to explain something about Ben, his first match next Saturday, some close relatives, and again about Mr. Warren. When I get a grip on it, I count to ten, to twenty, to thirty, and so on, but it doesn't help. I inform the principal in a bluntly elevated voice about the fact that Mr. Warren is my fucking boss, and no, he's not related to my son in any way.

He claims that it must be a misunderstanding. I claim that it must be more than that, because I'm sure I never even hinted at anything like this, and if he can't believe his own fucking eyes, he should believe me at least. I also remind him of Occam's razor, which helps a lot when our overly vivid imagination carries us away, adding that we have this problem in common, so I'm far from judging him.

He promises me to remember it next time. I promise him to find the time to see that fucking match.

He's still not satisfied with my answer. He explains about men. Tiptoeing around the well-known fact, that every good son needs a good father. For showing him how to be a man. For doing manly things together. And, most importantly, for attending matches. Or a male relative, at least. An uncle. A grandpa. A boyfriend of mine. A something.

I clear my throat. The principal probably suspects something, because I hear a strange, whining noise from the other end of the line. But it can't stop me now.

I tell him everything. What kind of male relatives Ben had, and how he lost them. Going into the detail. By the time I'm finished with the enumeration of our dead relatives, he's reduced to tears.

I say goodbye and hang up on him. Then I check on Ben and promise him that we won't move anywhere soon.

When I say it, I feel like being underwater. Not suffocating yet, but being close to it. Having less and less air with each passing moment.