Tomorrow Still Belongs To Me

The first thing Amara Daniels noticed was the sound — drip, drip, drip — water hitting the bottom of a plastic bucket in a rhythm she'd memorized months ago. She lay still, eyes open in the grey light before dawn, counting without meaning to. Three drops. Four. The roof had held through the night, and for a moment that felt like enough to be grateful for. She turned her head toward the lump of blankets beside her. Daniel was curled around his teddy bear the way he'd slept since he was six, one arm thrown over its balding head like he was protecting it from something. The bear had lost most of its stuffing years ago, but Daniel refused every offer of a replacement. He'd be lonely, he always said, like the thing had feelings. Amara smiled and reached over to smooth the hair off his forehead. "Wake up, sleepyhead." A groan. He burrowed deeper. "Five more minutes." "You said that yesterday." "And it worked." She laughed — a real laugh, the kind that came easy with him even on mornings when nothing else did. "If you don't get up, I'm eating your egg." That got him. One eye cracked open, suspicious. "My egg?" "Mm-hm. I already named it." He shot up so fast the blanket went flying, and for a second the small, sagging room was full of nothing but two kids laughing at something that wasn't even funny. That was the trick of this house, Amara had learned — it didn't matter that the walls were thin or that the paint had given up peeling years ago. It mattered who was inside it. In the kitchen, she opened the food container and did the math she did every morning. Rice, barely enough. Two eggs. Nothing behind them. She cracked both into the pan, watched them hiss and firm up white at the edges, and when she plated them, she gave Daniel the bigger one without thinking twice. He noticed anyway. He always did. "You did it again." "Did what?" "Gave me the big one." He pushed his plate an inch toward her, accusing. "You think I don't notice." "I'm the oldest," she said, like it explained everything. "That's not a real reason." "It's the only one you're getting." He stared at her a second longer, jaw set the way their father's got when he'd decided something, and then — without a word — he sliced his egg clean in half and dropped a piece onto her plate before she could stop him. "There," he announced, chin lifted. "Now we're both the oldest." Something in Amara's chest pulled tight. She blinked fast, looking down at her rice so he wouldn't see. "Who taught you to be this stubborn?" "You did." She was still laughing — a wet, crooked kind of laugh — when the front door creaked open. Their father stepped in still wearing his work uniform, grey with dust from the factory floor, his shoulders bent the way they always were after a night shift. But his eyes found them first, the way they always did, and whatever tired was written on his face melted into something soft. "There they are," he said. "My two favorite people in the world." Daniel was across the room before the sentence finished, crashing into him. "Dad!" Their father caught him easily, laughing into his hair, then looked over Daniel's shoulder to where Amara stood in the kitchen doorway. "I have good news," he said. She felt her whole body lean toward him, the way it always did when he said those words, because good news came so rarely it had to be caught the second it appeared. "What happened?" "My manager pulled me aside yesterday." He set Daniel down but kept a hand on his shoulder, like he needed to be touching one of them while he said it. "If this month's project goes through clean, there's a promotion in it. Real one. More hours on the books, better pay." "Dad—" "And," he said, holding up a finger before she could get too far ahead of herself, "if it happens, the very first thing we fix is that roof." Daniel's hand shot into the air like he was in school. "And chicken! Every Sunday!" Their father threw his head back and laughed, a real laugh, the kind that filled up the cracks in the walls better than any repair could. "Deal. Chicken every Sunday." For one whole minute, standing in that small ruined kitchen with rice going cold on the counter, the future felt like something that belonged to them. He had to leave soon after — the factory didn't care whose father he was — and when he reached the door he stopped, the way he always did, and turned back to find Amara. "Take care of your brother while I'm out." "I always do." He crossed the room and pressed a kiss to her forehead, his hand cupping the side of her face for just a second longer than usual, like he was trying to hold on to something. "I'm proud of you, Amara. You know that?" She would spend the rest of her life trying to remember if she'd said it back. The door clicked shut behind him. Daniel went back to his egg. The bucket kept dripping in its slow, patient rhythm, and the morning went on being ordinary, the way mornings do right up until the second they stop. An hour later, Amara's phone rang. A number she didn't know. She almost let it go to voicemail. She wishes, every day since, that she had. "Hello?" The voice on the other end was young, careful, the voice of someone who'd said this sentence too many times to too many strangers. "Is this Amara Daniels?" "Speaking." Her fingers had already gone cold. "I'm calling from Mercy General Hospital." There was a pause, and something inside Amara immediately tightened. "Why?" she asked. "I'm sorry, Miss Daniels. There's been an accident involving your father." Amara froze. For a second, she couldn't breathe. "What accident?" Her voice came out sharper than she intended. "Your father was involved in an accident at work." "No." The word left her mouth before she could stop it. She stood so quickly that the chair behind her scraped against the floor. "No, that's not possible. My father just left here." The woman on the phone was quiet for a moment. "Miss Daniels, I understand this is difficult, but—" "Is he okay?" Amara's heart was pounding so hard it hurt. "Please, just tell me. Is my father okay?" "I need you to come to Mercy General Hospital immediately." The room seemed to tilt. "Why? What happened to him? Is he conscious?" "Miss Daniels—" "Please!" Her voice cracked. Daniel stopped eating. He looked up at her, his smile disappearing when he saw her face. Amara turned away from him, pressing one hand against her mouth. "Tell me he's okay," she whispered. The woman on the other end took a breath. "I'm so sorry. The doctors are attending to him now. You need to come to the hospital as soon as possible." Amara stared at the wall. The words refused to make sense. Her father had been standing in front of her less than an hour ago. He had hugged Daniel. He had kissed her forehead. He had promised them chicken every Sunday. He had said he was proud of her. He couldn't be lying in a hospital. Not him. "Which hospital?" she asked, even though the woman had already told her. "Mercy General." "Okay." Her voice was barely a whisper. "I'll come." She ended the call. For several seconds, she stood perfectly still. Daniel slowly pushed his plate away. "Amara?" She didn't answer. "Amara, what's wrong?" She looked at him. And something in her expression made Daniel's face change. The phone slipped from her hand. It hit the floor with a small, flat sound that seemed to swallow every other sound in the house — Daniel's fork against his plate, the drip of water into the bucket, her own heartbeat. Daniel stood up. "Amara?" She couldn't answer him. She couldn't tell him. She didn't know how to say the words. Her father was in the hospital. Her father had been in an accident. Her father, who had just stood in this very room and promised to fix their roof. Her father, who had kissed her forehead and told her he was pro ud of her. None of it mattered anymore. Only one word was still echoing in her mind, over and over, refusing to make sense. Accident. And for the first time in her life, Amara was afraid of what tomorrow might bring.