“Wait here,” I whisper to her as I get out from under the covers. Stepping softly over the wooden floors, I move closer to the bedroom door. My hand is about to touch the doorknob when I hear something that makes me stop—hushed voices somewhere in the apartment, speaking quickly.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that—”

“I know.”

“—these things keep happening, and I—”

“I know.”

“—getting frustrated, with Ellie not sleeping well again, and—”

“You don’t have to explain. You’ve had a lot on your plate.”

There’s a short pause, only long enough for me to let out my breath.

“Can you talk to them?” Amy says. I’m trying to figure out where she and Jorge are. Their voices seem to be coming from down the hallway, close to where the bathroom is.

“Of course. I’ll ask them to clean up the bathroom.”

My stomach drops. I know exactly what they’re talking about. I guess after sharing a single bathroom with another three people my entire life, I just don’t notice these things anymore, but I can understand why Amy wouldn’t like to see puddles of water on the bathroom floor after we come out of the shower, or toothpaste smeared on the sink from when Sophie brushes her teeth.

“It’s not just the bathroom,” Amy says. I’m not sure why, but her voice comes out a bit muffled. “It’s the crumbs, and the dirty dishes, and—”

Uncle Jorge makes a shushing sound. “It’s okay. I’ll talk to them. You don’t have to worry,” he says, speaking more softly than before. I can picture him hugging Amy out there, maybe kissing the top of her head.

I go back to bed. I know Uncle Jorge is gonna bring this up sooner rather than later, but for now, I wanna pretend I never even overheard that conversation.

“What was it?” Sophie asks me.

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Everything’s fine. We can go back to sleep.”

Even though I manage to fall asleep for another full hour, all I see in my dreams is Amy’s angry face. I’ve never actually seen her looking upset, but I imagine this is what she would look like: red cheeks, nostrils flaring. I can even imagine what her voice would sound like if she were screaming. In my dream, I hear her saying a single sentence, over and over again: “Get out of my home!”

“Yes, Uncle Jorge,” we say for what feels like the thousandth time.

“We just want to make sure we’re all helping out so the apartment is always clean.”

“Yes, Uncle Jorge.”