Chapter Text
I plop a $50 bill on the counter, grateful there’s enough people back on the streets we could scrape together that much, pick up my groceries, and leave the store without making eye contact. I’m aware of every glance and camera pointed in my direction, burning holes in the back of my head. This is the riskiest job I’ve ever been assigned to, but Ezra said I’m old enough and been gone long enough to be on grocery duty. I’m likely not to get noticed, especially in the bustling chaos of Times Square, but my hands are shaking as I walk back to the apartment.
“Relax, kid! I’ve taken this trip hundreds of times without so much as a second glance from a stranger! You’ll be fine!” Ezra told me before I left. Still, the paranoia of being recognized plagues me.
“Calm down,” I think to myself, “the best way to go under the radar is to look like you know what you’re doing.” I breathe in deeply. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. With my back a little straighter, I keep walking. That is until I reach a crosswalk about halfway through my trip home, when I lock eyes with a woman crossing the street. She looks older, in her 50s, with brown salt and pepper hair cut at chin length, pale pink-ish skin, and hazel eyes that change color in the light. She’s staring at me, just staring. Her eyes widen, and she begins walking faster, turning around every once in a while to get another look at me, before taking out her phone to make a call as she reaches the end of the block. Something about that interaction makes my stomach turn, and I walk the rest of the way home in total paranoia.
Once I reach our building, I take the elevator up to floor 3 (the groceries are way too much to carry up the stairs) and use our knocking code apartment 307. Long, short-short-short-short, long, long . Ezra opens the door for me.
“Glad to see you made it back in one piece,” they say, leaning calmly on the door frame, one hand in their pocket and the other supporting their weight. Ezra is relatively tall, with light terracotta skin and shaggy blue hair, though I’m not sure what color it really is. Their eyes are dark, deep pits only amplified by the thick glasses they wear that I really don’t believe are prescription, but alter their appearance enough to be useful. They’re somehow always calm and always ready, as if they’ve been through every situation in the world and know exactly what to do for each one. Judging by their looks and the amount of time they’ve been out here, I place them around 25, but I’m not certain. “Whatcha get?”
“Enough food to last us ‘bout two weeks, three if we’re careful. Now let me in.” Ezra steps aside and I walk into the tiny apartment we all live in. Built for one, housing ten. But hey, it was the cheapest in this area. As I put the groceries in the fridge, I hear some of the others yell in excitement.
“OOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!! You did it, Liam! You broke the record!” I hear Ria scream from the other room. I guess everyone’s watching Liam play some game on the computer. Suddenly, Ria comes bounding into the kitchen, screaming the same thing at me. “Liam broke the record! Liam broke the record!”
Ria’s on the younger, and shorter, side, with pale freckle-covered skin. Her eyes are bright green, and her hair is currently a rich chestnut brown. But it used to be bright red. I should know. I helped her dye it. She’s probably around 10, but she could be a bit older. Other than that, I know nothing about Ria. But then again, no one knows much about anyone around here. None of us even use our real names.
I bet you’re wondering what’s going on. Why don’t I know the ages of my roommates? Why am I so nervous about being recognized while getting groceries? Well, I’ll tell you. My name is Kay, I’m 16 years old, and I’ve been presumed dead for 7 years.