“Any luck?”
My sister smiles at
me.
She is the reason, the
only reason, I keep fighting.
She has made a home for
us out of the rubble that was once an office.
Cubicle walls repurposed
to create our own little fort.
Tattered blankets that
she has repaired so many times that hardly any of the original fabric remains.
Two cots tucked away, a
sheet separating them, giving the illusion of privacy.
She has worked so hard to
create this home for us, to reclaim some small piece of our humanity.
She was seventeen. She should be getting ready for graduation,
for college.
Instead she was learning
how to hunt rats for their meat.
She coughs, her lungs
tight and wheezing.
It’s getting worse.
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