I scan the top of the building. “No flying monkeys.” I give his hand a little squeeze. “I think we’re safe. Let’s go, Toto.”

Okay, this is a motel. Not a sort-of motel or a motel-converted-to-apartments motel but a real motel. Two queen-sized beds, two nightstands, a tiny round table with two chairs, some drawers, a small closet, a microwave and miniature fridge, and a tiny bathroom. My heart sinks.

None of us say anything. Mr. Ryan clears his throat.

Mama snaps out of her trance of disappointment and says in a bright, brittle voice, “This is great! We have our own bathroom! And look,” she says, pointing up at one corner of the room. “A television!” Sure enough, hanging precariously (I remember that vocabulary word, Mrs. Monroe) from a bracket is a small TV.

“Yay!” Dylan crows.

Mama looks with dismay at the stains on the gold bedspreads and brown carpet. Daddy eyes a large crack over the bathroom door.

“Looks like you and Dylan will be sharing a bed, Piper,” Mama says.

“Yay!” Dylan yips.

Yay.

“Let me show you around Hope House,” Mr. Ryan says.

We ride the elevator down, down, down five floors to the first floor. Dylan thinks it’s the coolest thing ever that, to go anywhere, we have to ride an elevator.

Mr. Ryan introduces us to the man working at the front desk, Mr. Windward. He has earrings in both ears and lots of tattoos. But he also has a smile that says he’s really and truly glad we’re here. “You can call me Byron,” he says. “I’m here most of the time.”

Mr. Ryan shows us all these different rooms: a small library, a game room with stacked boxes of puzzles and tubs of Legos. “On Thursday mornings, they have story time in here,” Mr. Ryan says, “and Friday night is family film night.”

He shows Mama and Daddy the Resource Room. It has all kinds of handouts on things like jobs and getting food and medical assistance. There’s even a few computers. “We also hold training classes in here on filling out job applications, making résumés, interviewing, that sort of thing.”

“That’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Mama says, taking Daddy’s hand. Daddy nods.

We walk back out to the lobby. “In the morning, from six until nine, there’s cereal, fruit, and juice. That’s the only meal that’s served here.”

Darn. More squeaky green beans and goopy gravy.

“Oh, and there’s no laundromat. You’ll still need to go down the street for that.” Mr. Ryan must notice the disappointment on Mama’s face because he says, “But once a week, you’ll get fresh towels and sheets.”

I see kids all different ages hanging around the lobby with their moms. “So do we have to leave every day like at the other shelter?” I ask.