Chapter 1

Amara

The subject line stares back at me from my laptop screen like a death sentence: URGENT: Housing Scholarship Revocation Notice.

My fingers freeze over the trackpad, unwilling to click. The cursor blinks mockingly. Around me, the campus coffee shop hums with conversations about weekend plans and upcoming exams—normal senior year problems. Problems I'd kill to have right now.

I click.

Dear Ms. Johnson,

Due to a clerical error in our financial aid processing system and subsequent review of insufficient institutional funds, your housing scholarship for the remainder of the academic year has been revoked effective immediately. You are required to vacate your dormitory accommodation within fourteen (14) calendar days of this notice.

We apologize for any inconvenience.

Sincerely,

Financial Aid Office

The words blur together. Fourteen days. Two weeks to find somewhere to live with exactly forty-three dollars in my checking account and a maxed-out credit card.

My phone trembles in my hands as I scroll through my contacts. Dad's number glows on the screen. He'll know what to do. He has to. He always does.

The phone rings once. Twice.

"Darius Johnson."

Background chatter filters through—clinking silverware, muffled conversations, the kind of upscale restaurant he favors for business lunches.

"Dad, it's me. I need—"

"Amara? I'm in the middle of something here. Can this wait?"

My throat constricts. "No, it can't. My housing scholarship got revoked. They're kicking me out of the dorms in two weeks and I have nowhere to go."

A pause. The sound of a chair scraping against floor.

"Hold on." His voice grows distant as he presumably steps away from his table. "What do you mean revoked?"

"Some clerical error. Insufficient funds. I don't know the details, but they want me out by—"

"Amara, slow down. You're twenty-two years old."

The dismissal in his tone hits like ice water. "Dad, I need help. I can't afford—"

"Listen, sweetheart, you're going to have to figure this out. That's what adults do—they solve problems."

"But I don't have any money, and it's the middle of the semester, and—"

"There are always options. Talk to your friends. Look into off-campus housing. Get creative."

The background noise swells as he moves closer to his lunch meeting. Someone laughs—probably his colleagues, probably at something infinitely more important than his daughter's crisis.

"Dad, please. I just need—"

A woman's voice slides through the background like silk over steel, crisp and perfectly enunciated. Victoria.

"She's grown, Darius. This is her responsibility now."

The words pierce straight through the phone's speaker, each syllable calculated to cut. I can picture her perfectly—ridiculous manicured nails wrapped around a wine glass, lips pursed in that way that makes Dad think she's being reasonable instead of cruel.

"Victoria's right, sweetheart." Dad's voice shifts, taking on that appeasing tone he reserves for his wife. "You're in your final semester. Time to spread those wings."

My stomach plummets to somewhere around my ankles. "Dad, I'm not asking you to solve everything. I just need a place to stay until I can figure something out. Two weeks isn't enough time to—"

"Darius." Victoria's voice again, sharper now. "Your lunch is getting cold."

The dismissal stings worse than if she'd slapped me through the phone. I'm being managed, filed away like an inconvenient appointment.

"Look, Amara, I have to get back. You're smart. You'll work it out."

"But Dad—"

"Love you, sweetheart."

The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone screen, watching my reflection in the black glass. The coffee shop noise crashes back into focus—laughter from the corner table, the espresso machine's mechanical screech, chairs scraping against linoleum. Everything is exactly the same as three minutes ago, except my world just collapsed.

My chest caves inward like someone's pulled all the breath from my lungs. Not even a goodbye. Not even a "let me think about it" or "I'll call you back." Just Victoria's poison dripping through the receiver and Dad choosing her comfort over my crisis.

I press my palms against my eyes until stars burst behind my lids. When did I become such an inconvenience? When did needing help become proof of failure instead of a daughter trusting her father?

The notification sound of a new email makes me flinch. Probably the financial aid office with more cheerful updates about my impending homelessness.

Fourteen days. Forty-three dollars. No backup plan.

The walk back to campus blurs into a series of mechanical steps. Students laugh around me, their voices echoing off brick buildings like they're speaking underwater. My sneakers drag against concrete sidewalks still damp from yesterday's rain, each step heavier than the last.

Victoria's voice loops in my head like a broken record: She's grown, Darius. This is her responsibility now.

The precision of it stings worse than the words themselves—each syllable carefully measured, delivered with the exact tone of reasonable concern that Dad would never question. She'd been waiting for this moment, probably rehearsing that exact phrase while he knotted his tie this morning, while she poured his coffee, while she kissed his cheek. Victoria doesn't stumble into conversations. She orchestrates them like a conductor leading a symphony toward its inevitable crescendo.

Three years of this slow, methodical erosion. Three years of watching her transform my father from the man who used to take me to dusty used bookstores on Sunday afternoons—letting me pile novels as high as my arms could carry while he bought coffee and listened to me ramble about characters like they were real people—into someone who schedules daughter-time around his wife's comfort level and emotional temperature.

She's an artist at this game. Victoria never says anything outright cruel when he's within earshot, never gives him reason to defend me. Just small comments that burrow under his skin like splinters, working their way deeper with each repetition: Amara seems so dependent lately or Maybe some space would help her mature or You can't solve all her problems forever, darling. Always delivered with that soft, concerned frown that makes her look like she's genuinely worried about my development rather than systematically poisoning my relationship with the only parent I have left.

Death by a thousand paper cuts, each one invisible until you're bleeding out.

My dorm room key sticks in the lock, forcing me to jiggle it three times before the door swings open. The cramped space feels even smaller now—textbooks scattered across my desk, half-packed boxes stacked against the wall from where I'd started organizing for finals. Everything suddenly became temporary, borrowed time I didn't know I was living on.

I collapse onto my narrow bed, springs creaking in protest. The ceiling water stain shaped like Texas stares back at me, familiar and mocking. Fourteen days to find somewhere else to memorize every crack and discoloration.

My notebook falls open to yesterday's psychology notes: Learned helplessness occurs when repeated exposure to uncontrollable stressful situations causes an individual to accept their powerlessness.

The irony tastes bitter.

My phone vibrates against the comforter. A text from my roommate Keisha: Everything okay? Saw you leave the coffee shop looking rough.

I start typing three different responses before deleting them all. What's the point? Keisha has her own place lined up for next year, her own problems, her own family that actually shows up when she needs them.

The tears come without warning—hot, angry streams that blur my vision and drip onto my psychology textbook. I swipe at them furiously, but they keep coming, carrying months of swallowed disappointment and carefully managed expectations.

Victoria wins. She gets her perfect marriage, Dad's undivided attention, her fantasy family where stepchildren exist only in holiday photos and graduation announcements. Meanwhile, I'm twenty-two and homeless because I had the audacity to need something.

But as the tears slow and my breathing steadies, something harder crystallizes in my chest. A stubborn spark that refuses to be snuffed out.

Fine.

If no one's coming to catch me, I'll learn to fly on my own.