The week stretches longer than it should.
Not because time slows, exactly—days still pass, meals still arrive, lights still go out—but because nothing holds its shape. Rules change without announcement. Some mornings they're allowed outside, coats thrown on in a hurry, shoes half-tied. Other days the doors stay locked, the windows unopened, and no one explains why. Questions earn looks instead of answers. Silence becomes policy.
Uncertainty settles into the walls.
On a morning that smells like rain—cool air pressing in through cracks, the metallic promise of something breaking open—an attendant claps her hands once. Sharp. Final.
"Inspection. Line up. Bags on beds."
The word inspection moves through the room like a current. Shoulders tense. Conversations die mid-sentence. Someone drops a plastic cup; it skitters across the floor, loud in the sudden quiet. Rohan's face drains of color.
Ira feels it immediately—the pressure behind her ribs, the familiar tightening that means something important might be taken. Without looking down, she checks her sock with her toes. The coin is still there. Solid. Real.
Across the room, Alexander is already moving.
Not fast. Not obvious.
He steps once, then again, positioning himself just enough to block the direct line of sight between Ira's bed and the attendant who starts checking pockets. His body angle shifts, casual, like he's only adjusting his stance.
It looks accidental.
It isn't.
Meera leans close, her voice barely sound. "They'll find everything today."
Samir tilts his head, eyes half-lidded. "Only what they're meant to."
The attendants move bed to bed. Hands lift mattresses. Fingers probe seams. Bags are unzipped, emptied, shaken as if secrets might fall out on their own.
Rohan's bag is opened. Turned inside out. The toy car is long gone, confiscated days ago, but they search anyway, as if hoping it might grow back. His mouth trembles. Tears spill, silent at first.
"Stop that," an attendant snaps when she notices.
Rohan bites his sleeve, tries to swallow the sound. It comes out anyway—small, broken, desperate. The kind of crying that hopes not to be punished for existing.
Ira's chest tightens.
She opens her mouth.
Alexander shifts his weight.
Not toward her. Toward the door. His foot angles just slightly. A warning, not a command. Now isn't the time.
Ira closes her mouth. Swallows the words hard enough that her throat burns. Her hands curl into the sleeves of her sweater instead, nails pressing into fabric.
The inspection reaches her bed.
The attendant checks the pillow. The blanket. Lifts the mattress and drops it back down with a dull thud. She doesn't ask Ira to stand. Doesn't meet her eyes.
Then she moves on.
Ira keeps her face neutral until the footsteps pass.
When the inspection reaches Alexander's bed, the air changes.
An attendant runs her hand along the mattress seam. Her fingers pause—right near where the bookmark is hidden, folded so precisely it looks like part of the stitching.
Time slows.
Alexander doesn't move. Doesn't blink. His breathing stays even. His eyes remain fixed on the wall like nothing in the room matters at all.
The attendant hesitates.
Then she straightens and moves on.
Ira doesn't look at him.
She can't. If she does, something will show.
Later, they're allowed outside.
The sky finally breaks open. Rain falls in fine, slanted lines, cutting the yard into silver threads. A narrow shelter juts out from the building, barely wide enough for half of them. Some children run straight into the rain anyway, laughing too loudly, spinning with arms outstretched.
They'll regret it later. Colds are punished with suspicion here.
Rohan sits on the steps beneath the shelter, arms wrapped tight around his knees.
"They took my letters too," he says. Not crying now. Just hollow.
Ira sits beside him without thinking, close enough that their shoulders nearly touch. Alexander stays standing, back to the wall, eyes scanning the perimeter.
"What letters?" Ira asks gently.
"From my sister." Rohan's voice wobbles despite his effort. "She writes even though my parents don't come."
Ira feels a familiar ache bloom in her chest. "Did they say why?"
Rohan shakes his head. "They said they were distracting."
Alexander turns slightly. "Where did you keep them?"
"Inside a book."
Alexander nods once. Files it away.
That night, after lights out, Alexander waits.
Counts footsteps. Listens to keys fade down the corridor. Tracks the rhythm of the building until it settles into its deepest hum.
Then he shifts from his bed.
He moves quietly, controlled, every step placed with intention. He kneels beside Ira's bed.
She's awake. She always is.
He doesn't speak at first. He holds something out to her—folded small, edges worn.
A page. Torn carefully. Handwriting uneven but earnest.
One of Rohan's sister's letters.
"They missed the rest," Alexander whispers.
Ira's chest tightens sharply. She sits up just enough to see better. "How did you—"
"I watched," he says simply.
She looks at the paper, then at him. His face is calm, but his eyes are alert, bright with something that isn't fear.
"You could've been caught," she says.
"Yes."
She understands what he doesn't say: some risks are quieter than others. Some are worth taking because not taking them would cost more.
The next morning, Rohan finds the letter tucked beneath his pillow.
He freezes. Then clutches it to his chest like air itself. He doesn't ask how. He doesn't look around. He just holds it and breathes.
From then on, things shift.
Not dramatically. Subtly. The way pressure redistributes when something finally gives.
When Ira speaks too quickly in class, words tumbling out before she can stop them, Alexander taps his knuckle once against the desk. Grounding. Not silencing.
When Alexander goes too quiet—hours without a word, eyes pulled inward—Ira sits close enough that he can hear her breathing. A reminder. Not a demand.
They begin sharing information without making it obvious.
Which attendant checks bags thoroughly. Which one rushes. Which one can be distracted by questions about schedules. Which one notices patterns—and which one never does.
Meera brings gossip, sharp and observational. Samir brings humor edged just enough to deflect attention when it lands too close.
One afternoon, a new girl arrives.
She's younger than the rest. Small. Her silence isn't careful or chosen—it's empty, frightened. She doesn't eat.
Two meals pass. Then a third.
The attendants don't notice.
Ira does.
She slides half her bread across the table without looking at the girl. Doesn't make eye contact. Doesn't wait for thanks.
The girl hesitates. Then takes it with shaking hands.
That night, the girl is sick. Feverish. Crying for someone who doesn't come.
The attendants argue in low voices outside the room. Protocol. Forms. Timing.
Alexander stands in the doorway—not blocking it outright, just enough that entering would require acknowledging him.
"She needs water," he says.
"She needs to learn rules," an attendant snaps.
Alexander doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't step back either. "She's eight."
The attendant stares at him, unsettled. Unused to being looked at directly by a child who isn't afraid.
Ira steps forward then. "I'll sit with her," she says. "She'll be quiet."
The attendant hesitates. Relents. Barely.
They sit on either side of the girl through the night. Ira holds her hand, rubbing slow circles with her thumb. Alexander counts breaths. Watches the door.
At some point, the girl falls asleep.
Ira's head tips back against the wall. Exhaustion settles into her bones.
Alexander shifts closer so her shoulder doesn't slide. His arm doesn't touch her. The space between them narrows anyway.
Neither of them acknowledges it.
In the dim light, with the building humming around them, something settles.
Not affection.
Reliance.
By morning, when the girl's fever breaks and the attendants take credit, Ira and Alexander return to their beds without comment.
But the unspoken rule has changed.
It isn't just when to speak anymore.
It's who to protect.
And they both know—without saying it—that from now on, that includes each other.