I wake up to cold fingers shaking me on my arms. My eyes snap open, and momentarily, I'm terrified, but then I remember the events of yesterday that landed me in Zachariah's bedroom.

I roll over.

"Get up," he whispers, which I find strange, considering he's the only one who can hear me. "She's here!"

Oh no.

I sit up in his bed and look upon him in horror. He said she would be home at 9, did I really sleep through my alarm? No. I couldn't have, not when the fear of this situation is what kept my sleep so shallow.

Footfalls echo down the hallway. She won't come in here, will she? I look to Zachariah, but he has no help to offer. Without any other option, I shove my bags under the bed and stuff my body in the closet that's still filled with Zachariah's clothes. I don't get the chance to close it before the door to the hallway opens, and a woman, Zachariah's mother, walks inside.

She looks like she had a rough shift at the hospital. Her blackish brown hair is on her shoulders, but has a dent in it where it had been tied back into a ponytail and her shoulders are stooped as low as the joints will allow.

They were that low when I saw her working after I woke up in the same hospital she works as. The same lowness I saw leave after bringing me medication, or food. The lowness I never wanted to see again. The lowness I caused.

My breath is caught in my throat. If she turns around, she'll see me.

"Oh, Zach," she says, sitting backward on his mattress. I can see the sleepless nights, sorrow, and exhaustion etched into the lines on her face and the hallows of her cheeks. Zachariah is still standing there, just a few feet in front of her. "You won't believe what Sherry did this time," she continues.

My feet are sore by the time she finishes her recollection of what happened during her shift. His mother has a way of infusing the words with so much life, it's as if the staff are all here in the room performing alongside her, and not her playing every part. Zachariah is smiling, watching her while he sits on the floor. He looks over to me and waves his hand as if to beckon me to sit beside him. Good story or not, I will not be doing that.

She sighs deeply.

"And so ends another shift. What do you think about that?" she asks to a picture on the nightstand, the one with her and Zachariah embracing. Then she shifts, and turns her face forward, tilting her chin slightly upwards. "That Sherry is a character, isn't she son?"

Zachariah's eyes go wide, and so do mine. Her eyes are level with his, and if I didn't know any better I'd say she could see him.

"Come out, Alora," he says. "Explain everything to her, she'll believe you."

He must be caught up in the moment and not thinking clearly. Why would anyone believe anything I have to say? Especially her. I'm the one who took her son away, I'm the reason she can't see him. I can't respond any other way but to stay where I am.

Zachariah comes over to me in the closet and offers me his hand. I can't even shake my head without the hangers above me clanking together, so I plead at him with my eyes. She's getting up to leave, once she goes to sleep or shower, I can get out of here, she won't have to see me.

"It's going to be okay, just trust me, alright?"

I frown.

He sighs and grabs my arm before hauling me through the door and into the room.

I stare dubiously at Zachariah's mother. Horror washes over both of our faces.

"What are you..." she begins.

I fall to my knees and bow my head. It's the only thing I could do to hide my face.

"I'm so sorry!" I say. I can't look at her. I don't even know what to do now. I could run but that'd only make her feel worse, and I owe her everything. I owe her to not cause her any more suffering.

"This is my fault, I'm sorry, I shouldn't be here, I just..."

Zachariah cuts me off.

"It's okay. Just repeat after me, alright?" His cold hand is resting on my shoulder, its chill bringing me back to reality. He begins speaking words in Spanish that I, with my one year of study, can't grasp. I repeat them the best I can, even though I can't roll my 'r's the way he can.

She drops beside me and takes me by the shoulders.

"Where is he?" she demands.

I look over my shoulder and point. She puts her hands over her mouth. What did he have me say that convinced her that this was real? He must see the question all over my face because he smiles and says, "It was an inside joke we have."

Of course. They do seem like the type to have inside jokes. Tears begin pouring out of her eyes, falling to the rug in drops so thick, the sound echoes back at me. Three, four, seven, too many that I've caused.

She wipes them away and turns her attention back to me.

"Well, how about some breakfast?"

I sit at the table beside Zachariah as his mother prepares breakfast in the kitchen. This is beyond what I imagined my morning would be like, and yet, Zachariah looks happy and finally comfortable with his surroundings. The morning news is playing on the TV in the living room, and I try to gain control of my nerves by listening to the newscaster drone on about new drugs being dispersed throughout the country.

Zachariah's mom comes into the dining room with plates loaded with eggs, bacon, and French toast. She sets one down in front of me and the other in front of Zachariah. There are four chairs around the table, how did she know which one he was at?

Telepathy must run in the family, because she looks at me and says, "he always sat in that chair before school."

Zachariah nods.

"She really should eat this herself," he mumbles.

"Do you want me to tell her that?" I ask.

Zachariah shrugs his shoulders. "Might not do any good, she's stubborn when it comes to taking care of herself."

"Now I see where it comes from," I say back.

He chuckles.

"Oh boy, what is he saying now?"

I look back at his mother. I can't believe I was able to hold a conversation with Zachariah here at the table with her still standing there. It felt so easy. Natural even.

"He wants you to eat, but he said you're too stubborn to listen."

She puts a hand on her hips and looks at the chair where he's sitting.

"If you weren't so stubborn yourself, you would have brought a girl home for breakfast a lot sooner, young man."

Zachariah's haze turns pink.

"Does he have anything to say about that?"

I look down at the plate in front of me. "No, I don't think so."

"Good," she takes the seat across from him and laces her fingers. "So, he said earlier you needed a place to stay."

I dart my head back in his direction.

"It's okay, really. I don't mind at all."

"Don't say no Alora, you'll just piss her off."

His mom continues. "If it means having even an echo of him around, it's no problem. It gets lonely, and there's always too much food."

I look over to her. "Thank you."

"Now all there is to figure out which of us Zach would prefer to clean up the mess he left behind."

He cringes and looks between us. I laugh.

"What did he say?"

"Nothing, he looks like he's freaking out."

"Oh does he?" she asks and the corner of her mouth tilts upward.

His mom is shaking her head as she enters the hallway. There's a large box in her hands, taped up so I don't see the contents.

"I think I did everything he wanted me to. Does he want to check it before I put it away?"

"She got everything," he says.

"He said no."

"Alright, then you're up. I'll get you fresh sheets."

I step into a much cleaner version of Zachariah's room. It even smells fresher. I look over to Zachariah as he sits at his desk.

"Is it weird for me to stay here?"

"It's better than your aunt's house by miles," he says.

"But, what do I do now?"

"Live," he says forcefully enough that I can hear the 'duh' in it. "It's not like you're one to make plans anyway. You'll figure it out."

That's what he thinks. I'm decent at doing what I'm told, but in a few months, I won't get that luxury anymore. And here, I'm not sure if that's something his mother is willing to give me.

"Got the sheets," his mother says as she walks through the door. "Did Zach give you the grand tour?"

"We can do that later," he says. "You need to go to school."

"He didn't. Can you show me?" I say and ignore the rolling eyes beside me.

His mother shows me where to find the bathroom, the closets where she keeps towels, and the ins and outs of the kitchen. Even this is more than my aunt ever did, she left me to discover everything on my own.

"So that's pretty much it," she says, closing a spice cabinet. "Not much, but it's home."

It sure seems like it.

"I really appreciate your kindness. Um, what should I call you?" I have to ask since I never bothered to find out what Zachariah's last name is.

"Just Elisa is fine," she says. "I have some shopping to do, is there anything I can pick up to make you more comfortable?"

"No, you've done more than enough. I can come with you and help."

"Don't worry about it. Stay and get comfortable, my boy here can help you settle in."

She grabs a purse and heads out, leaving me with Zachariah. The minute the door latches, he looks me over.

"We could still catch your last two classes if we hurry."

I groan.

"Why are you in such a hurry to go to school, Zachariah?"

"I just want you to be able to graduate. And don't call me by my full name."

I blink twice. We haven't spoken much, so the idea of calling him by a nickname seems a little strange.

As if hearing my thoughts he says, "You're going to be sleeping in my bed, we might as well get familiar with each other."

I click my tongue. He has a point, I guess.

"Alright, Zach, whatever you say. But don't worry so much about my academics. I'm no star student like you were, but I have enough credits to graduate. I'd have to miss another week for it to be an issue."

"Yeah, but if you ditch one more time, you'll have to miss prom."

I laugh.

"What made you think I was going?"

"You should."

I look at him dubiously. Prom is only two weeks away, and I don't have anyone to go with, nor anything to wear.

"I'm serious, go. You'd regret it otherwise," he says.

Why go and spend the night alone? I can do that anywhere. What would I regret? Not wasting the little money I have?

"And how would you know that?"

"Because...I do."

The walk to the bank takes twenty minutes. I have a small reserve of money from what I get from my aunt. I don't spend much, since the transactions are tracked, and my aunt would always insist on knowing the reasons behind my every withdrawal.

But this is my money, the funds left behind by my parents. And the minute I graduate, I should get access to the whole balance and be free to create my own account separate from hers. Not just that, but I can get my own place and repay the kindness Elisa has shown me.

One hundred and forty dollars. All for a single ticket to an event I don't want to go to.

By the time I get the money, and walk out of town, classes are over. The ticket window is open for after-school sales. I slide the money to a bored girl stuck behind a plastic window. I'm not sure she's ever had to sell just a single ticket before, especially to a girl. At least it doesn't seem like she recognizes me.

I tuck the vibrant purple ticket into my pocket. Once we get back to Zach's room, I take it out and place it on his desk. I watch as he looks it over.

"'A Royal Affair' huh?"

I nod. "Probably just an excuse to reuse the props from the play they showed last winter."

His faint hand passes it over and I feel a lot less guilty snuggling his pillows knowing I've made him a fraction happier. I want to remember this look on his face. I need to, especially when I eventually struggle to find a dress to wear. I'll have to go shopping this weekend if Zach is going to force me to go to class.

I hear the front door open and leap up to meet Elisa at the front door. Both of her hands are full of groceries. I take the bags in her left.

"Thanks, dear."

We begin packing away the groceries. Bags of something called masa harina, dark chili pods, and a bounty of vegetables are put in their respective places.

"I think some enchiladas are in order, what do you think?"

"I don't know what that is."

"They're my favorite," Zach says from beside me.

She pauses and looks like she's struggling to find the words to explain whatever the foreign word means. "They're stuffed corn tortillas topped with sauce. Zach always loved them. Made me feel like I could actually sell them with how he scarfed them down."

She sets out the ingredients. It seems like a lot. Chilis, bulbs of garlic, papery onions, two different kinds of cheese, and too many different bottles of spices to count.

"Mind handing me the stock pot under the counter?"

Zach chuckles. "Oh, you're in it now."

I try to remember the cabinet where she had shown me the pots earlier. The closest I've gotten to cooking has been foam cups of ramen and cinnamon toast. So, I didn't really bother to try to remember. I pull out the first pot I find.

"Oh honey, that's a saucepan," she says and passes by me to grab a much taller pot. "This is a stock pot."

Cooking is even more complicated than I realized. If it has a lid, isn't it a pot?

"Mind if I catch something on TV?" Zach asks.

"Zach wants me to turn the TV on for him," I tell his mother. She nods.

I go to the TV and switch it on.

"What do you want to watch?" I ask.

He says some gibberish I've never heard of that's on an app called Crunchyroll. The show he makes me play has subtitles. What a nerd, wanting to read even his TV.

I go back to the kitchen. His mother jumps when I appear behind her.

"Anything else I can do?"

She smiles at me and closes her eyes for a moment. I'm not sure why, since all there is to hear is the Japanese rumblings coming from the TV in the living room. When she opens them, she asks me to grab a chef's knife from the drawer near the microwave. There are twelve knives in the block, I chose the biggest.

"We're just cutting onions, not slaughtering an animal," she says, laughing.

"Sorry, I've never really...cooked before."

"I learned everything with my own sense of taste and lots of Food Network. I'll get you up to speed the best I can. If you live off of whatever you eat from a microwave, you'll never find yourself a husband."

I laugh at her old-fashioned ways.

"Thank you."

We steep chilies and mix dough for tortillas. The only thing I'm good at is shredding cheese and hitting the right button on the blender.

"This what we use to make the tortillas," Elisa says, placing a cast iron device on the counter. It looks like it was made to squish fingers or commit some other kind of medieval torture, not just flatten balls of corn. She places a ball in between two sheets of parchment and pushes down. She peels off the thin circle and places it on something she calls a "griddle".

"Want to try? You just have to put your weight into it."

I nod out of politeness. In goes the ball of dough or masa or whatever it is, down goes the lever thing. I lean forward like she did, letting the cold iron dig into my hand. When I open the press, the tortilla splits into two jagged pieces.

"Sorry," I say quickly. "I...I can do something else. That way I won't waste anything else."

Elisa places a hand on my shoulder.

"It's okay. Tortillas, like all great things, are forgiving. Roll it up and try again."

It takes ten tries for me to make one right, but Elisa is patient with every horrible attempt.

"Nice one!" she says as I place my tortilla on the griddle. "Now stand back, this is my arm workout for the day."

She flies through the rest of the dough and lets me flip the ones on the stove. Why she does this, I have no idea.

"We want them pliable, not hard," she says as if I know the difference. I pull one off the skillet.

"Like this?" I say, lifting it.

She laughs. "That's a tortilla chip. We need it 90% less done than that."

"Sorry."

"It's okay, sprinkle it with salt. Snacks are mandatory while cooking."

I smile and direct my attention to the tortillas in front of me. The smell of steeping chilies wafts through the air, accompanied by the warm coziness of fresh tortillas. With the first steps done, we take the components that will be enchiladas to the dining room table.

She shows me how to fold the tortillas and I do my best to imitate her. Mine are a little more stuffed than hers, and not as pretty in the pan.

"Now is the most important secret," she whispers as if to keep Zachariah from hearing. "You can cover any mistake, as long as you have the right sauce. Cheese helps too. Cheese always helps."

She lets me spoon on the sauce and sprinkle cheese on top before we load it into the oven.

I've never done something like this before. And I wait in anticipation as the cheese begins to bubble on top of the enchiladas in the oven. I can't believe I helped her with this. She already had beans in the fridge, so we reheat those, but we put together an orange-colored rice and a pitcher of lemonade fresh.

Elisa sets up the food on the dining table as if it were a Thanksgiving feast. I pause the TV and Zach comes to the table. Even though he can't eat, he happily sits next to us at the table. He eyes me closely when I take the first bite of the molten food.

"What?" I say in his direction. A grin is spread over my face.

"It's good, right?"

"It's amazing. I've never had anything like it."

Elisa takes a sip of lemonade. "Not many Mexican restaurants in these parts, and not a single one of those are authentic. I'm glad you like it, especially since you made it with your own two hands."

I look down. I didn't do much, but, it does feel like...something.

"There aren't many Thai restaurants either."

"Right, your aunt, does she usually cook Thai food at home?"

Zach looks down, obviously upset. I shake my head. Scott only eats dino nuggets and mac and cheese.

"My mom did, but I never learned."

"Well, feel free to learn our secrets instead."