“Of course I do.” I can’t let Pa down. He would want me to go. We all know how busy the store can get on Saturdays, and I can’t leave Erika to deal with it on her own. She’s been working so hard lately. “Sophie, are you okay staying here?”

“Yeah,” she says, and I feel a little relieved. At least now she has a safe place to be while I’m working, and she won’t have to just wait inside the tiny office, bored out of her mind.

“Okay. I’ll be back for dinner.”

Even though I run, I’m still late for the start of my shift. It’ll take some time to get used to not living two blocks away from work.

The first couple of hours at the bodega feel faster and easier than I would’ve expected. We’re safe now, I keep repeating to myself. Even if Child Protective Services comes knocking on our door again, they’ll have no idea where we’ve gone, and so far there’s been no sign of them at my school or Sophie’s, which makes me hope that they’ve given up on us. We won’t have to worry about putting food on the table, or running out of clean laundry, or making sure that we have everything we need.

I just wonder how long this is going to last. It’s not a forever thing—I know that much. If anything, it feels like we’re just putting a Band-Aid on the problem. My sister and I won’t be able to sleep in the baby’s room for long. Ellie will eventually outgrow her crib and need to move back into her own bedroom, not to mention the fact that Sophie and I will get tired of sharing that tiny space, of sleeping on an air mattress, of not having a place to call our own. Jorge and Amy will also get tired of having to take care of us. They’ll want to go back to their normal lives, to raising their kid in peace, to having their apartment to themselves again.

We’re safe now, I remind myself once again, trying to push all those negative thoughts away. I try to hold on to that feeling of relief long enough to get to the end of my shift.

When I get back to Uncle Jorge’s, the food is already on the table, and they’re just waiting for me to have dinner.

“I made tacos tonight,” Amy says. “I thought it might make you feel a bit more at home.”

Something inside me melts. I don’t think we give Amy enough credit sometimes.

“Thank you,” I say to her. “That’s so nice of you.”