I put the pillow over my head. I don’t want to hear any more.

When we wake up, Daddy’s already gone. Mama looks frazzled.

And Dylan has wet the bed. What almost-six-year-old wets the bed?

And guess who has to strip the bed of smelly-pee sheets?

“Why do I have to take his smelly sheets off the bed?” I ask.

Dylan stands in the bathroom doorway, crying.

“Because, young lady, I have to clean up your little brother, and because I asked you to.”

I can feel anger I’ve been holding back for months building up inside me. I ball up my fists. Even my hair feels angry.

“He’s acting like a stupid little baby!” I yank one corner of the sheet off the mattress. I hear a little ripping sound.

“I’m not a baby!” Dylan wails.

“Watch your mouth, Piper,” Mama warns.

I yank the whole sheet off the mattress and throw it onto the floor.

“I’ve been watching my mouth forever, Mama.” My heart is hammering in my ears. “I never asked to leave Cyprus Point! I never asked to be living in this stupid, stupid shelter with all of us crammed into this little room and standing in line to eat.”

I can’t stop what comes barreling out of my mouth next. “It’s all yours and Daddy’s fault!”

The looks on both Mama’s and Dylan’s faces make me feel about as low as a piece of lint.

Mama bursts into tears. She takes Dylan into the bathroom. When they come out, he’s all cleaned up and her tears are gone.

“Take your brother down to the playroom for a while, Piper,” Mama says.

“But we haven’t had breakfast yet,” I point out.

Mama closes her eyes. I can almost hear her counting to ten in her head. “Get some breakfast and then go to the playroom.”

“Can I have three doughnuts, Mama?” Dylan asks, clasping his hands in front of his chest.

I expect Mama to say no, but she doesn’t. I think she’s all argued out.

I watch Dylan and another little boy build a tower out of Jenga blocks. Then, carefully, they start sliding pieces out and placing them on top. The tower sways. I hold my breath, waiting for that one piece taken away to bring it all crashing down, just like when:

Mama’s hours got cut at the nursing home.

The rent went up on our house.

We had to take Dylan to the emergency room when he had an asthma attack.

We helped Grandma Bess with her medical bills.

Daddy lost his job.

Another asthma attack.

Mama’s hours got cut again.

Our landlord died, the bank took back the house we rented from him, and

we get kicked out.

Crash!

And here we are. Nowhere to call home.