At 2:13 a.m., I called a county support line and whispered into the phone,
“Nothing bad has happened. Nobody’s hurt. I’m just fourteen… my little brother is sleeping on the floor, and I don’t know how to keep pretending I’m the grown-up.”
The woman on the other end spoke gently.
“Tell me what’s going on where you are right now.”
I was sitting on the kitchen floor between the sink and the stove because it was the only spot in the trailer that didn’t creak or feel like it might collapse under me.
My little brother Eli was asleep inside a plastic laundry bin filled with towels. Our mattress had ripped open weeks ago, and the metal springs poked through like teeth.
“My mom works nights,” I explained quietly. “She cleans office buildings, then delivers food until morning. She’ll be home around six. We’re not in danger. I just… I don’t know how to make things okay tonight.”
The woman didn’t rush me.
“What would help the most before the sun comes up?” she asked.
I looked at Eli.
One sock on.
One sock missing.
Curled into a tiny ball, trying to stay warm.
“A bed,” I whispered.
And suddenly I started crying so hard I had to press my hand against my mouth to stay quiet.