The car smelled like Mama's lemon hand cream.
And crying.
She thought I was asleep, but I wasn't.
I just didn't want to talk.
Not after yesterday.
Not after Rusty died.
My puppy was warm one moment.
Then cold.
Then gone.
Just like that.
I didn't get to say goodbye.
"Germany will be quiet," Mama whispered. "He'll be safe there. And so will we."
Safe.
But it didn't feel safe.
It felt like running.
Papa hadn't even hugged me goodbye. He'd kissed the top of my head and said, "You're my brave girl."
Then he left through the back door, with his black coat and no suitcase.
Mama said not to ask questions.
That Papa's job was important.
That we couldn't tell anyone what he really did.
I didn't even know what it was.
Just that it made Mama cry when she thought I wasn't watching.
I pressed my forehead to the window and watched the trees blur.
Spain was disappearing behind us.
So fast.
Like it didn't want us anymore.
I didn't want to go to Germany.
I didn't know how to talk to anyone there.
And Rusty wouldn't be waiting at the door.
My chest hurt.
It felt like I'd swallowed something sharp.
Like my ribs had thorns now.
---
It was raining when we reached the new place.
Mama left me in the hallway while she signed papers and talked in low voices.
I sat on the floor.
I didn't cry.
I didn't say anything.
Then—
Mama's phone rang.
She looked at it, her eyes wide, and picked it up fast.
"Serene," she said quickly. "Come here."
I stood. She grabbed me and rushed outside.
We ran.
Down the sidewalk. Past the building.
And then—
Papa was there.
Standing under a bus stop roof, coat soaked, face tired.
"Mija," he breathed, opening his arms.
Mama let me go.
He picked me up. Spun me a little.
Kissed all over my face.
"Are you okay?" he whispered over and over.
I nodded. Clung to his neck.
He looked at Mama. They didn't say anything, but it was one of those grown-up looks that had too many words in it.
Then we started walking back.
I held Papa's hand tight.
And that's when we saw him.
Curled up beside a dumpster.
Shaking. Dirty. Wet.
A boy.
He had red hair.
Red like Rusty.
Like my puppy.
Like home.
And I just—
I let go of Papa's hand and ran.
I didn't think.
I just cried.
"Mama, please! Can we take him? Please, please—he's all alone—just like Rusty—please—"
The boy flinched when I touched him.
But I wasn't scared of him.
I was scared of losing him too.
Mama looked at Papa. He nodded once.
And then she knelt beside me.
"Alright," she said quietly. "Let's bring him in."
That night, they gave him the extra room.
But I didn't like that.
He looked so small curled up on the mattress, hugging the blanket like it would run away.
I waited until Mama fell asleep.
Then I tiptoed out of bed and ran to his room.
He looked at me, wide-eyed, but didn't say anything.
So I crawled beside him.
The bed creaked, but he didn't move away.
I started talking. A lot.
In Spanish.
About Rusty. About how he used to chase birds and bite Papa's socks. About how I didn't get to bury him.
The boy didn't say anything. Just blinked at me like he was trying to understand.
I think he didn't speak Spanish.
But he listened.
Didn't blink much. Just stared at me like I was the first voice he'd heard in years.
I touched his hand.
It was cold.
"What's your name?" I asked, softer now.
He blinked.
Then finally, like he had to remember how to speak, he said—
"…Ilay."
I smiled.
Ilay.
It sounded like something important.
So I scooted closer and hugged him like I used to hug Rusty when he got scared during thunderstorms.
He was stiff at first. But then he let me.
And we just stayed like that.
I talked. He listened.
Even if he didn't understand a word.
And that was enough.
Because for the first time since we left Spain…
I didn't feel so alone.
But I didn't know it then.
But as time went on… Ilay changed.
Not all at once. Just little things.
He always wanted to sit next to me. Always held my hand tighter when I talked to other people. Always found a reason to follow when I tried to go somewhere without him.
At first, I thought he just liked being around me.
But sometimes, he looked at me like… like he was scared I'd disappear.
And even though he smiled, I could feel something twisting underneath it.
Like he was holding his breath. Like he was hiding something heavy.
He never said it.
But I think…
I think he needed me.
More than I understood.
So when it was time to move up to high school—and the grades split—I didn't go.
I stayed behind.
Two years.
Everyone laughed. Said it was silly. Said I was throwing away my future.
But they didn't understand.
Ilay needed me.
I thought I was saving him.
But maybe… he was saving me too. In his own broken way.
And deep down?
I think I needed him to.