3.

The squatters lived in the house next door. It became a night's sky when compared to the blazing, dull lights of the shabby apartment complex next door. It was hard to tell who was poorer.

In the complex lived a huge variety of faces: from the under payed middle aged man still wondering if that girl he liked in high school was alive, to the family of five crawling by on bread crumbs and spare pennies.

The squatters were different. They lit the rooms with candles, slept on cardboard, and found every opportunity to laugh and have fun. The abandoned apartment house, redecorated and refurbished enough times to weaken the walls, was a maze. It was a game. Who could make the best art? Who could craft the best tables? Who could make the cosiest bed?

"Hey, life is tough." Alfred said one evening, standing near the squatter's house. Dark windows reflected the sharp street lamps. "But these people are tougher."

Matthew, holding a basket, nodded. He watched Alfred's lips intently. It only took a hearing aid to make him able to hear his brother's voice. But he needed money to do that.

Alfred signed to Matthew to give him the basket. Matthew did, taking one of the flowers from the top. He placed the daisy on the window sill, tilting it so it was just barely visible. Alfred set the basket inside, since the door was open. He peered in and whistled. Matthew waited.

He ran a hand through his hair, which was long and curly, with flecks of brown against a tawny hue. Alfred turned back to Matthew. Where next?

Up to you.

What about home?

Up to you.

Alfred smiled. He patted Matthew's back. "Come on, let's go—"

Before he could complete his sentence, a sudden burst of sound and heat and light, followed by dust billowing like skirts, erupted in the building across from them.