Lila’s P.O.V.
The apartment had started to feel smaller every day, like the walls were learning how to breathe in time with my worry. Four days. Maybe five. I’d lost count. Time didn’t move the same way when you were indoors with three small children and no schedule except survival. Mornings bled into afternoons, afternoons into evenings, evenings into nights where I lay awake listening to their breathing and trying not to count the dollars disappearing from my account like water through cracked fingers.
I’d cooked everything I could think of to stretch what was left in the pantry. Rice with a little onion and the last of the frozen mixed vegetables. Oatmeal thickened with extra water and a single spoonful of peanut butter split three ways. Spaghetti again—without meatballs this time bec
