This family doesn't eat eggs right. The only thing on the table is salt. Well, salt and butter, but I'm assuming that's for the toast.

Where's the Sriracha? The tomatoes? ¿Las cebollas y los jalapeños? There's not even pepper—the second most basic seasoning. Who serves eggs without pepper?

"Poppy," Ms. Smith, my temporary guardian, snaps me out of internal breakfast food rant. Literally, she snaps her fingers in front of my face.

"What?" I ask, blinking.

"Pass the milk to James," she says. Her foggy blue eyes are impatient. Baggy pockets sink underneath them, not unlike the wings of skin that sag off her arms. It's like she's melting. Her perfectly coiffed silver hair reminds me of an iceberg perched atop her scalp.

James, her six-year-old grandson, is the perfect compliment to Ms. Smith's cold demeanor. His orange hair is curly and wild. His room, decked out in firetruck decor, is almost completely red. Like he's living in a constant state of emergency. And from the way he jumps on the bed and screams all night, that's exactly what it feels like.

I work my mouth into a tight smile. Pass the milk. Chastise myself for being so self-absorbed. Remind myself it could be much worse than bland eggs and ugly wallpaper.

I'm not trapped in a detention center. I'm not stuck in a church. I'm safely at a kitchen table. The FBI is not hiding in the bushes with handcuffs. ICE agents aren't banging on the windows. I was born here, so according to the law I can stay here.

But my heart still stops when I hear the doorbell ring. Because maybe I'm wrong. Maybe really nobody is safe.

"It's 8:30 in the morning, for god's sake," Ms. Smith huffs, waddling over to the door. She lets her fork drop on her plate with an irritated clang. I pick up my knife. Squeeze until my knuckles go pale. I know it won't help me, but I can at least give the impression I'm ready for a fight.

"Someone on the phone told me Poppy was here," I hear a voice coming from the foyer. I crane my neck around, catch a glimpse of brown curls I immediately recognize as belonging to Mariana's mom.

I practically sprint to the door.

"Is Ximena okay?" I panic. My parents would admonish me for being rude, not even greeting her first, but manners fall by the wayside when survival is at stake.

"She's fine."

"My parents?"

"They're fine, honey," Mariana's mom puts her hands up, trying to calm me. "I talked to CPS and they agreed to let you stay with us for awhile. If that's all right with you, of course."

Something about the way she phrases it—like it's my choice—immediately makes me feel a little better. Less out of control. I motion up the stairs with my head. "I'll go get my bag. Thank you, Mrs. Adams Foster."

"Lena," she corrects with a soft smile. "Please."

I nod, take the stairs two at a time.

"Running in the house," Ms. Smith mutters. "Heathen."

I lose all my adrenaline once I get in the car. The Smith house was a new environment, surrounded by people I didn't know. But here, in this somewhat familiar setting with this somewhat familiar face, my body is finally feeling tired.

I haven't actually had a proper night's sleep in a few days. Last night, obviously, was a disaster. If the worry hadn't already been keeping me up, James' antics certainly would have. The night before that there were the pre-prom jitters, agonizing over how I was going to get my hair to stay curled and choose the right makeup to go with my dress. And the night before I had to cram for a big history test.

I lean my head against the window, but every time I close my eyes it's chaos. It all happened fast—so fast I still can't process it. The bright twinkle of prom mixes with the blinding red and blue police car lights in my mind. It's ironic, really: the colors red, white, and blue. How they can simultaneously be a promise of freedom and symbol of doom.

"Mariana really wanted to come pick you up," Lena says, breaking the silence. "But she thought it'd be wise to get some homework done now so you can spend time together this weekend."

"No problem," I say. The days of stressing about homework already seem so long ago.

"I know this is scary, but I promise you Stef is doing everything she can."

I'm not sure why that's the thing that breaks me. I nod, look out the window, squeeze my eyes shut tight. Ximena doesn't let anyone see her cry, but I am not Ximena. I've always been the protected, never the protector. The tears burn—pinned underneath my lid. My nose starts to run, but I don't dare wipe it on my sweatshirt sleeve. It's one of the few pieces of clothing I managed to stuff in my bag during the hazy rush last night. Instead I sniffle, and Lena looks over at me.

"Oh, honey," she says, looking at me with something more genuine, less humiliating than pity. "There are napkins in the glove compartment."

"Thanks," I say, grabbing one and blowing my nose. I've made peace with the fact I'll never be as strong as Ximena, but not even being able to keep it together is embarrassing. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for," she says, reaching over and squeezing my arm. "Nothing."

I wish I believed her.

When we get to the house, I immediately ask if I can take a shower. The mix of hairspray, sweat, and too much makeup has me feeling grosser than ever, and my blotchy cheeks and puffy eyes aren't helping.

Mariana gives me a towel, shows me how to turn on the faucet, tells me to feel free to indulge her in "life-changing fancy shampoo" instead of settling for Callie's "hideous drug store brand."

I let the warm water massage my skin, let the steam cloud the clear shower curtain. I try to pretend the reason I'm aching all over is due to a particularly grueling derby practice. Forget that my life is shattering. Forget that I might never see my parents or sister again because of a stupid border.

I practically run into Lena while exiting the bathroom.

"Sorry," I apologize. I seem to be doing that a lot lately.

"It's okay," she says immediately. "Let me throw these in the laundry," she says, eying the dirty clothes I have draped over my arm. I almost refuse, but she's already taking them from my hands, so I know resistance is futile.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

"Better. The shower definitely helped."

She nods. "Would you like to lie down? Try and get some rest?"

Just then Callie walks by. "You can take my bed."

"Oh no, I couldn't do that," I reply. Although the prospect of sleeping near Mariana—one constant in my rapidly shifting life—is appealing, I know I can't. After all, who knows how long I'll be here? A day? A week? A month? I try not to think about it.

"No, it's totally fine," Callie brushes me off. "I slept next to the Lord last night, so everything seems like a letdown after that."

The image of Callie and Ximena sleeping among pews and tabernacles is a little funny, and I manage to crack a smile. "Okay," I relent. "If you're sure."

I crawl under Callie's blankets and stare at all the pictures on her wall. There's a beach, a forest, skyscrapers. But a photo of the park is my favorite. It reminds me of when I was little. Ximena would push me on the swings while my father made sandwiches. After lunch I would lie down on a picnic blanket while by mother sang me to sleep. I'd give anything for just one more day of that simplicity. Of that joy.

I've almost drifted off when I hear a quiet knock on the door. Lena comes in, one hand behind her back.

"Hey, settling in okay? Do you need anything?"

I shake my head.

"Good. Well just holler if you do," she says. "And listen, I know you're a little old for stuffed animals, but I figured it couldn't hurt." She takes a stuffed bear clad in a pair of roller-skates out from behind her back. "It's one of Mariana's old toys."

"Okay, baby Mariana cuddled up to that is the cutest mental picture I've ever had," I say.

"It was pretty adorable," Lena admits. "In retrospect, I guess I should've seen her derby obsession coming."

We both chuckle, and she hands me the bear. "I know it's a little silly, but-"

"It's perfect," I assure her. "Thank you."

"Try and get some sleep," she says, slowly closing the door.

I clutch the bear to my chest. Despite all the anxiety and fear, I manage to doze off. Because even though everything is falling apart, at least I've found a soft place to land.