We barely sleep. By dawn, the couch is shoved against the door, cardboard taped over every window, locks clicked and reclicked until our fingers ache.
Eventually we know we have to face the family stuff head-on. Mia and I step into the kitchen, close the door, and call home on speaker. Mom picks up sounding exhausted, and when we ask straight out about the debt she goes quiet for so long I think the call dropped. Then it all comes out. Dad lost more than anyone let on, tens of thousands racked up over years, and the collectors started calling the house last spring. Mia’s been sending money home every month, but the stripping story she told us earlier was only part of it. The real money came from quiet late-night cam sessions in her apartment, mask on, lights low, just enough to keep the
