Page 48 of Veil of Death and Shadow

Instead, we scoured housing ads at the closest library, hoping for just a sliver of a fucking break. Eventually, we landed on Oleg and his call fora symbiotic living situation in an upgraded studio—rent negotiable.

The ad didn't include pictures—the first bad sign—but we were desperate, and we definitely couldn't afford to be picky.

And the phrase “symbiotic living situation” conjured images that only became more cringe-worthy the longer I let my brain run wild with the possibilities. Second bad sign.

There were, of course, many more.

Oleg had 'upgraded' the shed in his backyard into what can only be described as a studio apartment to someone who'd never actuallyseena studio apartment before. The kitchen consisted of a broken microwave and a dorm-sized fridge that never got cold enough to keep perishables fresh for more than a day. Two during the winter.

The bathroom was the size of a closet. Even Sora, short as she was, had to bend and contort to fit her head beneath the shower spout. And the living-room-kitchen-bedroom space was just large enough to fitonefull-sized bed.

There wasn't room for anything else, not even a table. We had to set our stuff on top of the mini fridge if we wanted to keep the bed free from clutter—the only stipulation Sora ever had about the housing arrangements. Clean bed, and she could make almost any living situation work.

And somehow, the smell was even worse than the space.

Oleg handled the renovations himself, which largely meant slapping a fresh coat of paint over questionable stains, and the single-paned window he installed was so thin and poorly fit that there was no escaping the mold or unrelentingwetduring the rainy season. We were in Seattle, which meant half the year was spent sopping up water and black sludge from the windowsill,the scent of mildew and musk a constant, inescapable perfume that permeated everything.

Truthfully, we should have been grateful for the window at least. It was the only source of ventilation we had. Who knew what would eventually come of our lungs, breathing up all those mold spores?

The place was a shithole, but Oleg only charged us a hundred bucks total a month, let us move in without references, proof of salary, or identification, and, most importantly, he looked the other way when it became abundantly obvious that we were both truant, clueless minors attempting to live off grid until we were old enough to age out of the system.

He didn’t ask questions, which made him the best landlord we could have hoped for.

Plus, he even offered up his kitchen whenever we wanted to use it. All we had to do was dress up in his mother's old nightgowns when we did and tuck him in twice a month before he went to sleep. He'd originally requested nightly lullabies, but Sora was a master negotiator and threatened to report his deeply illegal ‘studio’ to the city if he pushed for more.

Though shitty, the set up proved pretty smooth—it was surprising how much ick you could live with if you cast it out of your mind and pretended like it was normal.

Whenever his neighbors shot curious glances at us, he told them we were his nieces, staying with him while our parents traveled, and we finished school online. Whether or not they ever questioned this white dude's familial relation with the Lebanese and Japanese teens living in his backyard remained to be seen, but if they did, nothing ever came of it.

Oleg's wasn't ideal, but compared to the alternative, it was the best option we had.

Until now.

Maybe.

Then again, now that I saw the prices proper landlords were asking for, I was starting to think that Oleg was the less predatory option.

The door swung open, and Sora rushed into the diner, the smile on her face carved so deep it actually looked painful. She slapped a rain-soaked flier on the table in front of me, the sound reverberating through the entire restaurant.

"Found one," she barked, the soft trembling of her fingers the only sign she was actually trying quite hard to contain her excitement—she just couldn’t. The golden retriever energy was strong with this one.

Frank handed a glass to the man seated at the counter, not even sparing her a glance. He’d grown very used to her theatrics over the years.

"Didn't I tell you?" She jabbed her finger against the paper, smearing the ink. "Things would start looking up for us—and they have."

I shoved another bite of the sandwich into my mouth, chewing slowly as I studied the paper. It was a flier for a punk show at a local dive, covered in Sora's chicken scratch. The ink bled together with the rain, making it entirely indecipherable.

"Sor, it's a shitty band, looks like there's a steep cover too."

Well, to be fair, ten bucks wasn’t necessarily steep in the grand scheme of things, but it was for us.

She scrunched her nose in disgust. "What?" She grabbed the flier from me, shook her head, flattening the paper against the table until it stuck to the surface. "Not the band,” she tapped the flier, “the address. It's Penny's ex's place—Becca. I’ve met her a few times, she’s cool. More importantly, she’s got two rooms available. Well, technically I guess it’s one room and a small office." She arched her brow, the edge of victory in her grin as she studied me. "Butwe can actually afford it."

I squinted at the paper until I could just start to make sense of Sora's lines and scrawl. "And your girlfriend is okay with you living with her ex?"

"Eh," Sora shrugged, leaning back against the booth, "probably not, but I've been thinking it's time to call it anyway. She's getting too clingy. Even started suggesting I move in with her."

I froze, my body going into panic mode at the mere suggestion that Sora might move out and in with someone else. We’d waited so long for our chance at a normal life. Now that it was finally within our grasp, I hadn’t even considered the possibility that she might want to do something else. That her vision of the future might have changed, expanded—without me.

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