The firefighters brought bunk bed pieces and built them in Noah’s corner.
The librarian brought a reading lamp, three dinosaur books, and a free internet hotspot. “Homework shouldn’t depend on luck,” she said.
Mrs. Holloway turned old curtains into a divider so Noah could have his own little “room.” Then she pinned up blue fabric with tiny white stars on it and said, “Every boy deserves a sky.”
My mother kept saying, “You don’t have to do all this.”
Denise finally touched her arm and answered gently, “I know. We want to.”
That broke something open in the room.
Not bad broken. The kind that lets air in.
Noah climbed onto the bottom bunk and laughed so loud I nearly forgot what our trailer had sounded like before that sound lived in it. He bounced once, then looked at me like he needed permission to love it.
“It’s yours,” I said.
“You sure?” he whispered.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m taking the top. I’m old and dramatic.”
That got the first real laugh out of my mother in months.
Before they left, the librarian taped my newest drawing to the wall above the table. Not the fridge. The wall.
It was a house with bright yellow windows and four people inside, even though we were only three.
Denise noticed.
“Who’s the fourth?” she asked.
I looked at the picture for a long second.
