The refrigerator light hit her like a spotlight in a crime show.

It flashed across shiny metal shelves, leftover takeout boxes, and—most sacred of all—a full, sweating bottle of orange juice. Real Florida stuff, not the store-brand knockoff. In their tiny off-campus apartment in Portland, Oregon, that bottle was liquid gold.

Taylor hesitated for exactly half a second.

Then she unscrewed the cap and drank straight from the bottle, gulp after guilty gulp, while the hum of the old fridge sounded like it was judging her.

By the time Holly walked into the kitchen, backpack slipping off one shoulder, the bottle was empty on the counter like a crime scene. Taylor was leaning against the stove, pretending she didn’t feel a single ounce of shame.

Holly stared at the bottle. Blinked once. “Please tell me that’s not my orange juice.”

Taylor wiped an imaginary crumb off her lip. “No,” she said too quickly. “I don’t… think so.”

“You haven’t had one glass since I bought it,” Holly said, picking up the empty bottle like it might still magically refill. “I just opened it this morning.”

“I got thirsty,” Taylor said, shrugging. “What did you want me to do? Pass out?”

“How about buying your own bottle?” Holly’s voice sharpened, but she kept it low. Their walls were thin, and the girl next door was always recording TikToks. “I don’t mind sharing if you ever contributed. But it’s been a year, Taylor. Twelve months. You have not bought groceries even once.”

Taylor rolled her eyes, like the conversation was boring and overdone. “But why would I buy groceries,” she asked, “when you keep the fridge completely stocked all the time?”

“That’s exactly my point,” Holly said, hands tightening around the plastic. “It’s not a decorative fridge. It’s my money. My time. My job at Target. You can’t just treat me like your personal food sponsor.”

The microwave clock glowed 7:03 p.m. Somewhere outside, a car alarm chirped. Inside, the argument hung in the air like humidity.

“Fine.” Holly’s shoulders dropped. “I’m going to the store. Do you want to come?”

“No, that’s okay,” Taylor said. “I have to go out later anyway.”

“How are you planning to do your laundry?” Holly asked. “Didn’t you say you were out of detergent too?”

“That’s a good question,” Taylor said, thinking back to the satisfying swish of Holly’s expensive detergent in the washer that afternoon. “I actually just did mine.”

Holly stared at her for a long moment. “Did you use my detergent?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Maybe somebody else used it,” Taylor said.

“No one else lives here,” Holly said. “Can I use some of yours?”

“I’m actually all out too,” Taylor replied.

The lie was so thin you could see daylight through it, but Holly was too tired from work and class to keep pushing. “Whatever. I’ll figure it out,” she muttered. “Do you need anything from the store?”

Taylor perked up. “Well, since you’re offering… we’re low on toilet paper. And, you know, more orange juice. And detergent.”

“Sure,” Holly said. “If you want to give me some money to pay for it.”

Taylor opened her mouth. Closed it. “Actually,” she said, “I just remembered I have to get a couple more things later, so I’ll just… go out myself.”

“Of course,” Holly said, swallowing. “Right.”

She went to her room, grabbed her tote bag and keys, then came back through the living room, pausing by the couch.

“I’m heading out,” she said. “Please don’t drink my new orange juice or eat my cinnamon buns. These are for me. Got it?”

“No orange juice, no cinnamon buns,” Taylor said, saluting with two fingers. “Loud and clear.”

“I’m serious,” Holly said. “If you ever want to start pitching in, we can share everything. But if you’re not contributing, you have to stop treating my stuff like it appears by magic.”

“I said I’m going to buy my own,” Taylor replied. “Like right after you leave.”

“Good,” Holly said. “I’ll see you later.”

The door shut behind her with a soft click.

Taylor waited.

Five seconds. Ten.

Then she popped off the bakery box lid and breathed in the sweet smell of cream cheese frosting and cinnamon.

“One cinnamon bun isn’t going to kill her,” she muttered, peeling back the paper cup from the pastry. “Consider it a roommate tax.”

She took a huge bite, the frosting smearing across her lips.

And immediately yanked the pastry away.

“What the—” she gasped, gagging. “Why does this taste like toothpaste?”

She spit the bite into the sink, turned on the faucet, and practically drowned her mouth. Her tongue tingled with mint and sugar and something bitter.

She stumbled to the fridge, desperate, ripped it open, grabbed the new bottle of orange juice Holly had taped a note onto—TAYLOR DO NOT TOUCH—and chugged.

The juice burned all the way down.

She paused, panting, one hand on the countertop. A slow cramp twisted through her stomach like someone was wringing her insides.

By the time Holly came home, the apartment smelled faintly of bleach and regret.

Taylor was on the couch, pale, hair messy, a blanket wrapped around her, eyes wide and glassy from the trip she’d just made—twice—to the bathroom.

Holly dropped her grocery bags and stared. “What’s so funny?” she asked when she saw Taylor’s expression.

“Nothing,” Taylor croaked. “Nothing at all.”

Holly walked around the couch, paused, and whistled softly. “Wow,” she said. “What happened to your sweater?”

Taylor twisted, trying to see the back. A constellation of white splotches bloomed across the dark fabric like some weird abstract painting.

“What the heck?” she yelped. “How did that happen?”

Holly raised an eyebrow. “You sure you didn’t use my detergent?”

Taylor’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“Because I may or may not have secretly poured some bleach into that bottle,” Holly said calmly. “Like, a lot of bleach. Funny thing about bleach—it eats color and lies.”

“That’s… that’s messed up,” Taylor stammered.

“Not as messed up as you helping yourself to things that don’t belong to you,” Holly said. “Or lying about it. You know what’s crazy, though? I also know exactly how that cinnamon bun tasted.”

Taylor glared at her. “You put toothpaste on it.”

“Spearmint,” Holly confirmed. “Extra strong. On all four of them. I figured if someone couldn’t respect a sticky note on a box, they at least deserved fresh breath.”

Taylor moaned and clutched her stomach. “And my stomach—”

“That wouldn’t be what you ate,” Holly said. “It’s what you drank.”

Understanding dawned slowly. Horror followed.

“You… you put something in the orange juice,” Taylor whispered.

“Just a gentle nudge from the pharmacy aisle,” Holly said. “Let’s call it… a very convincing reminder not to drink things that don’t belong to you.”

“I think I need the bathroom,” Taylor groaned, bolting upright.

“There’s a line,” Holly replied coolly. “Next time you think ‘why would I buy groceries when you do,’ maybe remember how today felt.”

Taylor staggered down the hall like someone walking against a hurricane.

The sound of the bathroom door slamming echoed through the apartment and into the hallway, where an older man carrying grocery bags paused, sighed, and shook his head.

Manuel had a lot of practice with sighs these days.

In his small rental house across town, the one with peeling paint on the porch and a patchy yard, he nudged the door open with his shoulder and called out, “Mija? I’m home.”

His mother, Alma, stood in the hallway, one hand resting on a cardboard box full of posters and makeup and tangled string lights. She wore the same sweater she’d had when she came over from Mexico twenty-five years ago, thinner now at the elbows.

“I still feel so bad taking Maria’s room,” she said in Spanish, eyes soft and anxious. “You sure, mijo?”

“Don’t worry about it, Mama,” he replied in English tinged with his first language. “She’ll understand. The doctor said you shouldn’t be alone at the nursing home right now, with that virus spreading everywhere.”

The front door banged open. “Hey, Dad, I’m home,” Maria shouted, tossing her backpack onto the chair by the wall.

She froze when she saw the boxes.

“Hi, Grandma,” she added, a little confused. “I didn’t know you were here.”

Alma lifted a hand, shy, as if visiting her own family required permission. “Hola, mija.”

“Dad… what are you doing?” Maria asked, eyeing the posters rolled into a tube, the hoodie peeking out of a box.

Manuel set the grocery bags down and braced himself. “Look, sweetheart,” he said. “Your abuela hasn’t been doing too well. She’s going to stay with us for a while. She needs her own room, and—”

“And you’re kicking me out of mine?” Maria snapped. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s okay, Manuel,” Alma said softly. “I can go back to the home. I’ll be fine.”

“Mama, no,” he said. “We talked about this. It’s not safe there right now.”

He turned back to Maria. “I know this is hard. But it’s temporary. I made you your own space. Come on, I’ll show you.”

“I seriously can’t believe this is happening,” she said, but she followed him.

In the living room, one corner of the worn sectional couch had been turned into a sort of nest: clean sheets tucked into the cushions, a thick comforter, a bright brand-new pillow with the tag still on. Manuel had even dragged a small nightstand next to it, with a lamp and an extension cord for her charger.

“See?” he said. “I got you a new pillow. A comforter. It’s not ideal, but it’s the best I can do right now. You know money’s been tight since the restaurant closed.”

“This is ridiculous,” Maria said. “I go from having my own bedroom to sleeping on a couch like some guest. How is that fair?”

“At least you still have a home to sleep in,” Manuel said quietly. “Some people don’t even have that. Maybe you could be a little grateful.”

“For what?” she shot back. “For losing my privacy? My bed? There’s no point in me even being here anymore.”

“Hija—” he started, but she had already swung her backpack over her shoulder.

“I’m going to stay with Tara,” she said. “Her parents let her have her own room. She doesn’t have to sleep on the living room like some extra piece of furniture.”

“Maria, please,” Manuel said. “Don’t leave angry.”

But the door had already slammed, and the house shivered.

That night, as the city lights flickered on across Oregon and far beyond, in state after state, people were squeezed into apartments, houses, shelters, and cars, each carrying their own bundle of frustration and fear.

In a cold parking lot behind a supermarket in Seattle, a girl about Maria’s age sat in the backseat of a beat-up sedan, sharing half a sandwich with her mother.

“Here you go,” her mom said gently, handing over the bigger half. “Turkey and cheese. Our favorite.”

“Half a sandwich again?” the girl asked, but there was no edge in her tone—just a quiet acceptance.

“I’m sorry,” her mom said. “It’s all I could get today. We’ll do better tomorrow, okay?”

“No, Mom,” the girl said, already taking a bite. “This is great. I didn’t think we’d get to eat at all. Thank you.”

Her mom blinked quickly, looking away. “I just hate that this is how things are,” she whispered. “Ever since I lost my job, I feel like I failed you. We’re sleeping in our car, living off gas station food. And I know you hate sandwiches—”

“I don’t hate anything you give me,” the girl interrupted. “At least we get to eat. Some people don’t. At least we have a car. Some people are outside, with nothing at all.”

Her mother swallowed hard. “You make me so proud,” she said. “I’m the lucky one, you know that?”

The girl smiled. “No, Mom. I’m the lucky one. I’m grateful for everything I have.”

If the wind had blown differently that night, maybe Maria would have passed that parking lot on her way to Tara’s house and seen that car with fogged-up windows, that girl in a hoodie trying to stay warm, and realized how soft her own couch really was.

Instead, she sat on Tara’s fluffy bed, scrolling through Instagram, rolling her eyes at posts about gratitude and “staying positive during quarantine” with perfectly staged mugs of coffee.

Back at home, Manuel helped Alma arrange her few clothes in Maria’s closet with careful respect. Later, he lay down on the opposite end of the couch nest he’d made for his daughter, using his jacket as a pillow.

He stared at the ceiling fan, its slow blades whispering in the dark, and remembered the tiny apartment he’d shared with Alma when they first arrived in America. No couch. Just one mattress on the floor and so much hope it made his chest hurt.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” he said quietly across the hall, knowing she was awake too. “She’s just… young.”

“She will learn,” Alma replied. “Life is a patient teacher.”

The lesson came faster than any of them expected.

The next afternoon, Maria walked back through the front door, hair messy, eyes red-rimmed, her hoodie smelling faintly of cold air and car exhaust.

“Honey,” Manuel said, standing up so fast he nearly knocked over the lamp. “Thank goodness you’re home. I was so worried.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I… I shouldn’t have left like that.”

He noticed the sandwich in her hand, wrapped in plastic. “You’re about to throw that away?” he asked when she headed toward the trash.

“I didn’t know what else to do with it,” she said. “I’m not really hungry.”

“Don’t,” he said quickly. “I’ll eat it. I really appreciate you bringing it home.”

“You do?” she asked, surprised.

“Of course,” he answered. “Food is food.”

She hesitated. “Well… then maybe we can split it. I’m… grateful I even have food, Dad. I’m sorry for the way I acted. You and Grandma… you can keep my room. I’ll sleep on the couch. It’s really not that bad.”

Manuel blinked. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “I thought having my own room meant everything. But some people don’t even have a couch.”

“What changed your mind?” he asked gently.

She thought of the girl in the car. The way her smile had still somehow reached her eyes when her mom handed her half a sandwich.

“I just learned to be more grateful for what I have,” she said. “Can we give someone this extra blanket and pillow we’re not using? There’s something I want to do.”

Later that week, she stood at the edge of a homeless encampment under the freeway, an extra pillow under one arm and a folded blanket in her hands. A woman with tired eyes and a smile that still fought through the exhaustion took them like they were diamonds.

“Thank you,” the woman said. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

“Actually,” Maria replied softly, glancing back toward where her dad waited in the car, “I’m starting to.”

Across the river, in a quiet neighborhood lined with maple trees and American flags waving lazily from porches, another kind of entitlement was playing out behind perfectly trimmed hedges.

“Okay,” Oscar said, dropping his overnight bag at the foot of the stairs. “So we’ve gone over everything. Again.”

His partner, Jen, laughed. “Give her a break,” she said, nodding toward Kristen, who stood in the hallway clutching her phone like it was a life raft. “You’re stressing our house sitter out.”

“I’m not stressed,” Kristen lied. “I’m fine. Totally fine.”

“Right,” Oscar said skeptically. “So, just to recap. No guests. No parties. Don’t let Scout out of your sight. He’s smart but nosy. The spare key is on the counter. Our number is on the fridge. And—”

“And there’s a camera,” Jen added, pointing to the discreet device tucked into the corner near the living room ceiling. “Just for safety. Crime’s been wild lately in Portland. Don’t be alarmed. We just use it to check in on Scout when we’re bored at work.”

Kristen followed her finger, spotted the little lens watching her, and smiled weakly. “Cool. Of course. Security. Makes sense.”

Jen’s phone buzzed. “Oh! That must be her now,” she said, hurrying to the door.

It wasn’t. It was their neighbor, Mrs. Porter, a small woman with cloudy eyes and a basket of oranges balanced on her hip.

“Hello, dears,” she said, her southern accent lingering from a childhood far away. “I just picked these off my tree this morning. Brought you some.”

“They’re the best oranges in the whole Pacific Northwest,” Oscar whispered conspiratorially to Kristen. “She’s got this sixth sense. Picks the good ones by touch.”

Jen took the basket gratefully. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Porter. Oh, and we’re heading out tonight. We hired a house sitter, so don’t be alarmed if someone else opens the door.”

“Well, thank you for letting me know,” Mrs. Porter said. Her milky eyes shifted vaguely in Kristen’s direction and landed just enough. “You take good care of them, honey.”

“I will,” Kristen said, nodding, even though the older woman couldn’t see it clearly.

“Also,” Oscar added, lowering his voice as if the rug could hear him, “please be careful with that rug.”

Kristen looked down. A plush, cream Moroccan-style rug sprawled across the living room, its diamond pattern crisp and clean. It didn’t look particularly sacred. It looked like something that had been on sale at Target.

“It’s brand new,” Jen explained. “We really want to keep it nice. So if you don’t mind…”

“I won’t eat on it,” Kristen said. “Or near it. Or… breathe on it. Got it.”

They all laughed.

“Okay,” Oscar said finally. “We’ve got to hit the road or traffic to Seattle is going to be a nightmare. Call us if you need anything. And Scout—”

Their fluffy golden dog trotted down the stairs, tail wagging, tongue lolling out. He looked like a walking commercial.

“Hi, buddy,” Kristen cooed.

“We spent way too much money on his automatic feeder,” Oscar said proudly, pointing at the sleek device in the corner. “It’s got a camera, a microphone—I talk to him sometimes during lunch. It dispenses food at scheduled times. So you don’t even have to worry about feeding him. Just keep him safe.”

“No parties,” Jen repeated.

“Zero parties,” Kristen promised.

The second their car turned the corner, disappearing down the tree-lined street, Vera popped up from the passenger seat of Kristen’s dusty Honda parked around the block.

“They gone?” she called.

“Very gone,” Kristen said, grinning. She walked straight to the router by the TV, yanked the cable free, and watched the little green lights die. “So is the camera.”

“Who says the American dream is dead?” Vera laughed. “You get paid to house sit, paid to serve drinks, and you don’t even pay for the house.”

Within an hour, music pulsed through the walls, lights flushed pink and blue across the ceiling, and strangers were leaning against walls, perched on staircases, filling the kitchen with laughter and the smell of cheap beer.

Kristen stood behind the kitchen island, a tip jar already glittering with crumpled twenties in front of her. “Vodka sodas are five,” she called over the music. “Tequila shots are six.”

“Who charges for drinks at a house party?” a guy in a beanie asked, half amused.

“Bars charge way more,” Kristen shot back. “And there’s no cover here. You’re welcome.”

By eleven, the jar was so full Vera had to grab a second cup.

“Seven hundred,” Kristen whispered, counting quickly. “Plus the house-sitting fee. Mexico, here I come.”

“You are going to get caught,” Vera said lightly, eyeing the sweating glasses on the coffee table, the scuff marks on the hardwood floor. “Somebody’s going to spill something on the miracle rug. Or that camera is going to magically still work.”

“I unplugged the router,” Kristen said. “No router, no Wi-Fi. No Wi-Fi, no camera. It’s not my fault if the internet goes out.”

“What about the mess?” Vera asked.

“I have cleaners,” Kristen replied. “I pay them cash, they reset the house like nothing ever happened. Everybody wins.”

A football sailed past them.

Kristen spun. “Are you serious?” she yelled. “Who brings a football to a house party?”

“Relax,” the guy in the jersey called. “I got hands like a receiver.”

“Not over the rug!” Kristen shrieked as the ball bounced off a lamp and careened toward the cream diamonds on the floor.

It missed by an inch.

Her heart thudded against her ribs.

“Turn down the music,” she said to Vera. “People are drunk. We should probably shut this down.”

“One more hour,” Vera pleaded. “Think of bottle service on the beach. And massages. We’re this close.”

Before Kristen could answer, Scout came barreling down the stairs, nails clicking on the wood, fur puffed, tail wagging.

“No, no, no,” Kristen said, rushing toward him. “You’re supposed to be upstairs. Safe. Not wandering through a minefield of red cups and humans.”

“Hi, Scout,” a girl squealed, dropping a tortilla chip right onto Oscar’s precious rug and grinding it in with her heel. “Who’s a good boy?”

Kristen’s stomach clenched. “Don’t step on that,” she hissed. “Please.”

The music seemed to get louder. Or maybe it was just the pounding in her head.

A guy leaned against the automatic feeder in the corner, laughing too hard at a joke, jolting the machine. It beeped angrily.

“Hey,” Kristen shouted. “Don’t touch that. Seriously.”

“Chill,” he said. “It’s a dog bowl, not a rocket.”

She didn’t notice, in all the chaos, that Scout’s next scheduled feeding never came. The machine sat there, lights flickering, camera blind, bowl empty.

By two in the morning, the house looked like the aftermath of a tiny, glitter-covered hurricane. Cups everywhere. Oranges gone. Rug not destroyed, but definitely not the pristine cream it had been.

“Okay,” Kristen said, clapping her hands. “Party’s over. Everyone out. Now.”

Groans and protests rose, but the crowd moved. Eventually.

The door clicked shut on the last guest.

Kristen sagged against it. “I can’t believe that just happened.”

“The important thing is,” Vera said, “your jar is full.”

Kristen glanced at the clock. 3:12 a.m. The cleaners were coming at sunrise. She’d nap, scrub the last evidence herself, buy a replacement rug if she had to, and—

“Where’s Scout?” she asked.

They both froze.

“Scout?” Kristen called, walking through the kitchen, the living room. “Scout, come here, buddy.”

No jingling collar. No soft paws.

“Maybe he’s upstairs,” Vera said, forcing cheer into her voice.

They checked every room. Every closet. Every corner.

Kristen found the front door slightly open, the security chain dangling.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no, no.”

“Maybe he just went outside to—” Vera started.

“He’s a house dog,” Kristen said. “He doesn’t just wander the street.”

“We’ll find him,” Vera said firmly. “You go this way, I’ll go that way. We’ll look all night if we have to.”

They did.

Hours later, as dawn slimmed the shadows and birds started to gossip sleepily in the trees, Kristen trudged back up the front steps, shoulders sagging, clothes damp with morning mist. No Scout.

Inside, the cleaners had worked a miracle. The rug was vacuumed, the counters gleamed, the air smelled faintly of lemon instead of cheap cologne and spilled soda.

“We got everything we could, but we couldn’t do much about the oranges,” one of them said, shrugging.

Kristen stared at the empty fruit bowl. “Yeah,” she said. “I’ll fix it.”

She hit Target the second it opened, grabbed the closest rug that matched the pattern, bought a bag of oranges that looked kind of like Mrs. Porter’s, and raced back.

By the time she’d nudged the new rug into place and arranged the oranges in a neat little pyramid, she’d convinced herself of one thing: she would handle it. Somehow. Tell a half-truth. A quarter-truth. Something that didn’t involve confessing to a full-scale house party and a missing dog.

When the knock came, Kristen’s heart jumped into her throat.

She peeked through the peephole.

It was Mrs. Porter, holding Scout’s leash.

Kristen yanked the door open so fast she nearly hit her.

“Scout,” she gasped, dropping to her knees and hugging the dog like he was made of gold. He yipped and licked her face, tail thrashing.

“I was taking out my trash,” Mrs. Porter said calmly. “I heard his collar jingle. He came right up to me. I figured he’d gotten out.”

“I was… I was just about to come looking again,” Kristen stammered. “I was playing with him outside, and I saw him go toward you, so I thought—”

“That I’d keep him,” Mrs. Porter said, a little smile tugging at her mouth. “And you’d get a break.”

Kristen swallowed. “Something like that.”

“Well,” the older woman said. “He’s home safe. That’s what matters.”

Kristen watched her walk away, feeling both saved and more guilty than ever.

She’d barely had time to breathe when Jen and Oscar’s car pulled into the driveway.

“Hi,” Jen called, wrestling a suitcase up the steps. “How did it go?”

“Fine,” Kristen lied. “Everything went… fine.”

Oscar stepped inside, sniffed the air, and smiled. “Smells the same,” he said. “Looks the same. Camera’s off, though. Weird. Did you touch it?”

Kristen’s pulse spiked. “I was just… about to turn it back on,” she said, reaching up toward the device. “I noticed it was off.”

“Oh,” Oscar said. “Must’ve been another random outage. This neighborhood has the worst internet. Thanks for trying to fix it.”

Jen walked past, then froze. “My rug,” she breathed. “Still perfect. Thank you for not stepping on it.”

“Of course,” Kristen said. “I know how much it means to you.”

Something tickled the back of her mind.

“If it means so much,” she asked cautiously, “isn’t it… kind of just a Target rug?”

Oscar laughed. “It is. But it’s the first new thing we bought when we moved into this house. Makes it feel like home.”

He bent down and plucked a tiny piece of lint from the corner. “There we go,” he said. “Now it’s flawless.”

Where in the world did Scout get that football? he wondered a second later, when the dog trotted in proudly carrying a deflated mini ball in his mouth.

“I know what happened,” Jen said. “You got him a toy, didn’t you?”

Kristen opened her mouth to deny it.

“Yes,” she said instead. “I did.”

“That was so sweet,” Jen said. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Kristen’s cheeks burned. “Least I could do,” she said.

Before she could sneak out, there was another knock.

Mrs. Porter again, oranges in hand.

“I brought these for that young lady,” she said. “The house sitter. She was so thoughtful.”

“Really?” Jen asked. “That doesn’t surprise me. She’s been great. Actually, we should give her an extra big tip.”

“These are not my oranges,” Mrs. Porter said suddenly, fingertips brushing over the smooth peels in the bowl. “These are store oranges. Mine have rougher skin. Thinner stems.”

Kristen froze.

“We’ll talk to Dave and figure out what happened,” Jen said, sharing a quick look with Oscar.

When they turned back, Kristen had her bag slung over her shoulder.

“I should get going,” she said. “You can just… Venmo me whatever you owe. No rush.”

“Actually,” Oscar said, “before you go… did Scout have all his meals? He seems a little off.”

Kristen swallowed. “Yeah. Of course. I mean, I think the feeder glitched once, but I refilled his bowl. It’s fine.”

“I’ll just check the camera,” Oscar said, pulling out his phone. “There’s a tiny one built into the feeder. Best purchase I ever made.”

Kristen’s stomach dropped.

The app loaded. A spinning circle. A grainy timeline. A frozen image of Scout staring at an empty bowl while music thumped faintly in the background.

Then, a glitch. Then, a smear of bodies.

Then, the video cut out entirely.

“This piece of junk,” Oscar muttered. “I paid so much money for this thing and it doesn’t even work. Scout usually does fine with oranges, so that can’t be it. Must just be tired from missing us.”

Relief crashed over Kristen so hard she nearly laughed.

“Anyway,” Jen said, “you were amazing. We’ve never had a house sitter leave the place so spotless. Here.” She pulled out an envelope. “One fifty for this time, three hundred for next month—we’re going away again—and a big tip. Five hundred total.”

“Seriously?” Kristen asked, fingers trembling as she took it.

“You earned it,” Jen said.

Kristen stepped outside, blinking in the daylight. Her phone buzzed.

“Great party last night,” a text from one of her friends read. “Pretty sure I threw up on that rug. My bad. Did I leave my glasses there?”

Behind her, inside, Jen’s voice rose. “You threw a party here?”

Kristen winced.

“Get out,” Oscar shouted a second later. “And never come back.”

Kristen jogged to her car, heart twisting somewhere between guilt and giddy relief as she looked at the envelope in her hand.

A notification appeared at the top of her screen.

Companion pass confirmed.

She smiled.

“Mexico,” she whispered. “Here I come.”

By the time she got to the airport bar a week later, her new travel companion—a guy she’d met through a friend of a friend, equally eager to escape—was already three tequila shots in.

She clinked her glass against his. “To Cabo,” she said.

He tipped his head back, swallowed, and went pale.

“My body doesn’t do tequila,” he mumbled.

Thirty minutes later, as they stumbled down the jet bridge, a flight attendant stepped in front of them, eyes firm.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry,” she said. “He’s too intoxicated to fly. We need to get both of you off this plane.”

“What?” Kristen protested. “I’m fine.”

“Your ticket is a companion pass,” the attendant explained. “If he can’t fly, you can’t either.”

Kristen stared, then laughed half-hysterically.

It turned out you couldn’t cheat everything. Not the camera in the dog feeder. Not the rules of the airline. Not the quiet way consequences crept up on you, whether you were stealing orange juice, refusing to give up your bedroom, throwing secret parties, or whining about sandwiches.

From a cramped apartment kitchen in Oregon to a small rental house with a grandma in the bedroom and a grateful daughter on the couch, from a meticulously decorated home in a quiet American neighborhood to a car in a parking lot under an open sky, the same lesson kept echoing, the way certain stories do in this country.

You never really know what someone else is going through.

You never really know who’s watching.

And sooner or later, in a big loud place like the United States, where everyone thinks everything is about them, life has a way of teaching the ones who take everything for granted that nothing, not even a full fridge or a soft couch or a loyal dog, is ever guaranteed.