The lock clicks into place as I turn away from the door, the weight of the day pressing heavily on my shoulders. The dim lighting in the apartment casts long, wavering shadows along the filthy, peeling walls. The air is thick with the scent of stale cigarettes, cheap alcohol, and something vaguely damp, like old fabric left in a humid room for too long.

  Dad stands in front of me, blocking my way further inside, his frame casting a faint silhouette against the muted glow from the overhead fixture behind him. His posture is stiff, his expression sullen, carrying a dull resentment simmering beneath his tired eyes. His stubble is uneven, dark shadows lingering beneath his sunken cheekbones, and his wrinkled shirt clings to his thin frame.

  “Pass me the wallet, Victoria,” he commands, his voice low but firm.

  I reach into my pocket, my fingers tightening slightly over the cheap synthetic material before pulling it out. He seizes it from my hand with practiced ease, barely giving me time to let go before he taps it against his own wallet. The small screen illuminates his face in a cold, blue glow as he selects his preset transfer address. His fingers, once precise and steady from years of engineering, now move with a weary efficiency as he taps decisively, selecting the maximum amount before confirming the transaction.

  A quiet chime signals the transfer. His eyes flick to the screen, scanning the amount received, and then they move up to directly meet mine, sharp and expectant.

  “Is that all?” His voice carries the same discontent as his gaze.

  I start to explain to him about the rising grocery costs, about how even the cheapest food barely lasts us through the week, and he dismissively cuts my explanation short. “I expect there to be more tomorrow, okay?”

  A slow burn rises in my chest, but I force my face to remain neutral. My lips press into a thin line as I give the faintest nod, unwilling to fuel another pointless argument.

  “While you live under my roof, you need to contribute your part.”

  The words scrape against my nerves, lighting the spark of my frustration into something stronger. I grip my returned wallet tightly before spitting out my response.

  “Roselyn doesn’t contribute…”

  “This isn’t about Roselyn,” he snaps, his tone edged with impatience. “It’s about you. You’re the eldest and almost an adult now. It’s time to take some responsibility for your actions.”

  His words land like a slap, but I refuse to let them linger. I break eye contact and storm past him, heading straight for the tiny kitchen bench. With no proper storage for food, our kitchen doesn’t consist of much more than this. A few mismatched utensils, a couple of chipped plates and two odd cups is all I can find at the moment.

  I grab the loaf of bread and a bruised apple from the small pile of groceries, setting them on the dull, chipped cutting board. I can’t say that my mood does the food much justice on its presentation. The knife is dull, forcing me to saw through the bread rather than slice it, but it gives me some time before calling Ernie over to eat.

  We gather around the rickety table, and all eat quickly and silently, stewing on our own thoughts as we do. Although, to be honest, when we are hungry and have that little food, even pacing ourselves feels like we are rushing.

  The only sounds are the quiet scrape of utensils against plates and the occasional squeak of a shifting chair. Even Dad eats in silence, staring straight ahead at the bare wall, likely wishing he is anywhere else but here with us.

  As we finish, Ernie thanks me for the dinner, his voice small and genuine. For the first time that night, the tightness in my chest eases slightly. A faint outline of a smile ghosts across my face.

  I grunt back in appreciation of his gratitude. I really hope that he values what I do for him by staying in this house.

  Because if I ever leave, I don’t know what will happen to him.

  Ernie and I sit on the worn-out couch, its fabric rough against my arms as I glance over his history assignment about Australia’s involvement in World War I. His school tablet casts a dull glow in the dim room, its cold light reflecting off the scratched surface of the coffee table. Ernie leans forward, his small hands resting on the edge of the battered coffee table, his brows furrowed in concentration.

  He appears to be struggling with the concept of the war. A war fought without drones, satellites, or long-range precision weapons? The idea that soldiers had to physically go to another country, standing face-to-face with an enemy, risking their own bodies for battle… it seems like a distant, almost unfathomable reality to him.

  I try to help him make sense of it. “Australia joined the war on the 4th of August 1914, because Britain declared war on Germany,” I explain, tracing the date on his screen with my fingertip. “But Australia didn’t have a choice. As part of the British Empire back then, we were automatically involved.”

  He nods slowly, his brows drawing together in quiet contemplation as he processes the information, letting it settle into his understanding. “Sixty-five percent of the Australians who participated ended up as casualties,” he repeats, trying to wrap his head around the staggering numbers. His voice wavers slightly, as if the enormity of it is settling in.

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  I hesitate before continuing. “And it didn’t help that Britain sent the Australians and New Zealanders, known as the ANZACs, to land at Anzac Cove on the Gallipoli Peninsula first, directly into the path of Turkish machine guns. The British soldiers weren’t even the first wave; they held back while ANZACs were the ones scrambling up the cliffs, under heavy fire.”

  Ernie grimaces. “That sounds… stupid,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Didn’t they have a better plan?”

  I sigh, crossing my arms before resting my cheek against my hand, propped up by my elbow. “You’d think so. But British war strategists weren’t exactly great back then.”

  I glance at his screen again, the bright text scrolling past as he speaks into the microphone of his tablet to piece together his report. He rearranges his notes, following a messy timeline of alliances, betrayals, and declarations of war. I know even less about helping him explain the war back to the assassination of an Austrian archduke in Bosnia. But following a timeline of which country declared war on which other country seems good enough for his report.

  This does not give me much time to give to my own assignment, but I can do some quick research. Okay, how does renewable energy distribution work? Looking on the internet on my phone, there seems to be a lot of information. I swipe through my phone, scrolling past government sites filled with vague promises and buzzwords. There’s United World’s official website, a Sydney-based scientific study by Mariana Montoya and even a documentary showing the statistics about population density, climate constraints, and the struggle to generate enough power for the country’s demand. I doubt, however, that will answer enough of my more specific questions.

  It looks like I will start with that scientific article and see what else I can find tomorrow.

  Ernie lets out a satisfied exhale. “I’m done.” He holds out his tablet, his face expectant.

  I take it, scrolling through his paragraphs, scanning for any errors. His structure is improving, but his grammar still needs work. I correct a few inconsistencies before handing it back to him.

  “Looks good. Just be careful with your punctuation,” I tell him.

  He grins, pleased with the compliment.

  I wish he was able to get these things correct on his own. That will do for tonight though. I’ll have to see what I can get done on my own assignment at school tomorrow, or else I’ll be stuck finishing it over the weekend.

  After brushing our teeth in the same kitchen corner, where the mirror is speckled with age, I tuck Ernie into bed patting him gently on the forehead before finding my own. “Night, Ernie.” “Goodnight, Victoria.” The mattress sags under his small frame as he pulls the thin blanket over himself, shifting around to get comfortable.

  The single mattress of my own bed creaks as I lay down. I get as comfortable as I can with so many things on my mind and stare up at the ceiling stained with water damage as I try to fall asleep.

  Outside, the city never sleeps. Loud voices echo through the night air, footsteps shuffle along the sidewalk, and distant sirens wail, faint, but ever-present.

  I roll onto my side to face the nearest wall, trying to push the noise away, trying to push everything away.

  Sleep doesn’t come easily. But it’s my responsibility to manage it all.

  I jolt awake, at the sharp, metallic click of the doorknob turning. The air in the room carries the faint scent of lingering cigarettes, mixed with dust and sweat from my restless sleep in our small enclosure. I am ready to spring to my feet as the door swings inward and in strolls Roselyn. She moves without a care, exhaustion clinging to her beneath the practiced facade that keeps her true feelings buried.

  What time is it? I fumble for my phone, the screen’s glow piercing the darkness. 6:04am. Where has she been all night to only be arriving home now? I really can’t take on the responsibility of watching over her too!

  She doesn’t even glance at me as she kicks off her shoes, their worn soles thumping on the noisy floorboards, one after the other. Her clothes follow next, tossed haphazardly onto the mountain of discarded outfits she never bothers to put away beside her bed. She collapses onto the thin mattress, shifting just enough to plug her phone into the charger while we still have power today. The device's glow cuts through the darkness, casting light over the tired creases beneath her eyes as she scrolls through whatever holds her attention. I try to fall back asleep, but find it hard to let go of my worry of how Roselyn is turning out.

  Her frequent soft little giggles to what she reads on her phone doesn’t help me to forget about her either. Every sound keeps me anchored to my thoughts, unable to drift off.

  I sigh, staring at the low, water-stained ceiling. Food. We are well due to actually eat something with protein soon and I might need to pick up an extra shift this weekend for us to do that. The thought makes my stomach sink. That’ll spoil my plans to finish my assignment this weekend though. Maybe I could skip an afternoon of school to work instead… but then Ernie could end up anywhere afterwards, and he needs to be my first priority.

  The best solution would be for Dad to get a job again. He wouldn’t have much choice, and he would need approval from United World to leave the house… but he sits around doing nothing all day anyway. He really could work to feed his own family!

  My thoughts are shattered by a sharp, grating chime.

  I let my alarm ring longer than usual, so that Roselyn can deal with the consequences of staying out all night and barely getting any sleep. She doesn’t move in the slightest. Dad doesn’t move either.

  They both just lie there, pretending we don’t exist, waiting for me to turn it off. I expect that Roselyn plans to just skip school today.

  I tap the screen, silencing the noise, but the tension in the room lingers. Roselyn still hasn’t made a sound, her back turned to me.

  I already know the answer, but I ask anyway. “Are you joining us and coming to school today?”

  She pretends not to have heard me.

  “I said… are you coming to school today?”

  She exhales loudly and turns her back to me, pressing her pillow over her ears in an attempt to block me out.

  I push back the thin blanket and sit up, my feet touching the cold floor. If she wants to ignore me, I’ll make her answer me another way.

  I take a few determined steps toward her bed, but Dad's voice slices through the air, rough and laced with irritation.

  “Quiet down, Victoria. We’re trying to sleep!”

  That answers my question. His presence is a dead weight in this house. Silent when I need support, loud only when he wants something from me.

  Fine. Let her waste the day. Let her sleep until noon and live in this endless cycle of avoiding responsibility.

  I don’t have time for it.

  I glance across the room, and Ernie is already making his bed, smoothing out the thin blanket with careful hands. His gaze meets mine, and I offer him a small smile while I start to do the same with my bed.

  This is who I’m here for, I remind myself.

  We pull on our school clothes and have just enough breakfast to quiet the hunger. With one last look at the apartment—the peeling walls, the cluttered mess Roselyn left behind, the silent figures still lying motionless in their beds, I push open the door.

  Time for our Tuesday walk to school.